


lamp-bright rind

by nagdabbit



Series: A Treasury of Great Recipes [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (but she can research like a champ), (but she watched chef's table and always be my maybe), (the author can't actually cook), (the author doesn't actually know how restaurants do), Abandonment Issues, Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, An Unexpected Steve Harrington Arrives on the Scene, Anxious Billy Hargrove, Artist Eleven | Jane Hopper, Artist Will Byers, Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Bonding, Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Have a Good Relationship, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove is Having Difficulties, Billy Hargrove is not a conservationalist what with all this pining, Billy and Nancy aren't bros yet but they will be, Billy hates how cute it is, Billy is Struggling, Billy spies on his neighbor, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Chef Billy Hargrove, Chef Robin Buckley, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Dancing, Dramatic Steve Harrington, Gay Billy Hargrove, Hopper is just Nick Offerman, Jim Hopper is Everyone's Dad, Kittens, Lawyer Steve Harrington, Lesbian Robin Buckley, Love at First Sight, M/M, Monumental Levels of Pining, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, Past Child Abuse, Pastry Chef Robin Buckley, Photographer Jonathan Byers, Pining, Robin Buckley & Billy Hargrove Friendship, Robin and Billy are bros, Robin makes ice cream for obvious reasons, S L O W B U R N, Slow Burn, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Has Low Self-Esteem, Steve is bad at texting, Steve spies on his neighbor, The Author Knows Nothing About Law, Woodworker Jim Hopper, but only when they cook, he's not a perv he just thinks steve is cute when he's burning water, head scritches, here comes some angst, just constant anxiety, oblivious idiots, their kitchen windows line up, turkey sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 97,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagdabbit/pseuds/nagdabbit
Summary: Stir until sauce is thickened and clings to pasta. Turn off burner, keep stirring a few moments more, remove pan from heat entirely.Serve with grated cheese and basil.He grabbed himself a clean (ish) fork, his ratty recipe notebook, and wandered toward the living room to find something on Netflix.Most nights he liked cooking. Kept the lights dim enough he could watch Pretty Boy across the way. But Thursdays and Saturdays, the windows across the way were always dark. If nothing else, Billy got work done on Thursdays and Saturdays.Billy spies on his cute neighbor, his cute neighbor doesn't know how to cook. Luckily, Billy can do something about that.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Susan Hargrove, Billy Hargrove/Original Male Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway, Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins
Series: A Treasury of Great Recipes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884433
Comments: 687
Kudos: 680





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem Oranges by Roisin Kelly
> 
> I have no idea what this is but i am a dragon who hoards stolen cookbooks and also has feelings and isn't handling being mostly alone all that well. So this is happening. Fair warning, I can't cook. Like, I can bake a little and I used to be a Very Angry Child, so I project on fictional characters (if my past ventures into this fandom are anything to go on *cough*baker billy*cough cough*), but I cannot cook, like, at all. But I like research, so we will power through. 
> 
> I know how this is gonna end and I have an outline, I just don't know how long it's gonna be. I just need a project, I'm going c r a z y. Chapters won't be consistent in length, either. Won't be consistently posted, either, just when I finish one, I guess. I'm just working through some shit and my roommates can't get out to get ingredients to feed me (don't worry, I do the dishes and clean and pay for hulu, I'm not a complete mooch). 
> 
> But if I cannot have the food, then I will write it.

He hated garlic crushers. Didn't care for grating it, either. Preferred chopping it to bits. Better for his anger management. Crushing only did so much and there was always a thin skin of garlic left over in the damn thing that never really made it into the pan. Besides, knives were much easier to wash.

Six cloves of garlic, finely chopped. He'd put three in the recipe, no one would ever listen to that part, anyway. He dropped a thick pat of butter into the pan, watching it sizzle and pop in the hot pan. He dumped in the pile of garlic, gave it a stir.

He cast a glance out his kitchen window, but only caught his reflection. 

Across the way, Pretty Boy's apartment was dark. It was always dark on Thursdays. 

He shook himself out of it and turned his attention back to the stove. In went the thin slices of tomato--just a couple reds from the market he'd passed on the way home, not the Orange Beefsteak he'd been lovingly growing on his patio. He tossed in a pinch of sugar from the pot by the stove, a pinch of ancho chili powder and a pinch of dried basil. 

To the right, he watched the water boil away. He dumped in a generous amount of salt, and with his other hand stirred the tomatoes. Into the water went a handful of the fresh trofie he’d made earlier, and the kitchen began to smell like caramelized tomatoes and fragrant garlic. He lowered the heat beneath his sauce, spooned in the fresh pesto and the slivers of roasted peppers he’d sliced earlier. A few more stirs and in went a splash of cream and the quarter cup of that Merlot bellavitano that Max had left in his fridge, finely grated.

The pasta was done soon after that. He grabbed the spider and began dropping basketfuls of pasta into the sauce. In followed a healthy ladle of pasta water.

Stir until sauce is thickened and clings to pasta. Turn off burner, keep stirring a few moments more, remove pan from heat entirely.

Serve with grated cheese and basil.

He grabbed himself a clean ( _ish_ ) fork, his ratty recipe notebook, and wandered toward the living room to find something on Netflix. 

Most nights he liked cooking. Kept the lights dim enough he could watch Pretty Boy across the way. But Thursdays and Saturdays, the windows across the way were always dark. If nothing else, Billy got work done on Thursdays and Saturdays.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and also all the food mentioned are from: roommates, roommates' cookbooks, my favourite restaurant that my aunt takes me to because i'm poor and she isn't, various instagram chefs, so if you wanna know something that I mention, I can try and remember where I found it

Robin wasn’t a morning person by _any_ stretch, but she could show up on time if he asked her to. He could work with her pretty well, appreciated her creativity and skill. He liked the menu she was developing, even if he thought she liked ice cream _too much_.

"I do _not_."

"Buckley, how many different--"

"Okay, first of all, _how dare you_."

"Don't you quote at me, young lady! I am--"

"Second of all, there's only three ice creams on there, so shut your damn face."

Billy rolled his eyes. "Uh huh, and pistachio--" 

"Gelato!" she snapped, smacking him with a dish towel. "It's not the _same_!"

"Buckley, I'm putting a cap on frozen dairy products," he returned, tossing a muffin at her face. It missed. "Three."

"But--"

" _Three._ You want more than that, it can be a _component_."

She glowered at him. "Four."

"We have a daily special!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “We have a seasonal menu! We don’t need _four fucking ice creams_.”

Another thing he appreciated about her was just how _stubborn_ she could be. It was like she was a member of the family, only she didn’t hit half as hard as Max. Her knuckles were a lot bonier, though. 

She schooled her face into a blank, impassive mask. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back against the counter, and _stared_ at him. And kept staring. It was unnerving and she _knew_ that it made his skin crawl. 

"Fine, _four_. Christ."

"Cool,” she said and turned back to her own notebook to scribble a few more lines.

He sighed. "Buckley, you are getting on my _last goddamn nerve._ "

"Yeah? Well you need to get laid, goddamn." She tossed half a muffin back at him. It hit him square in the center of the chest and exploded. “You’re never this cranky when you get regular dick.”

“I am _not_ cranky!” he grumbled, and halfheartedly threw a handful of crumbs at her.

She turned her head just enough to lift a single, judgemental eyebrow at him.

"I am _fine._ Okay? I'm fucking _fine._ I don't have time for relationships and shit," he grumbled, and waved her off.

"I said get _laid_ , not get a boyfriend."

"Yeah, and I'm over all that." 

“What, being a big ol’ slut?” Robin asked, offhandedly. 

And she wasn’t _wrong_ , exactly. He couldn’t even pretend that his reputation wasn’t earned. But he hadn’t settled anywhere before, hadn’t intended to put down roots and just _stay_ . He hadn’t intended to find someone to keep because he hadn’t intended to be kept anywhere he’d been. But Max had settled herself in Chicago, and Robin had, too. It wasn’t white beaches and sun--in fact, it was cold as _balls_ most of the time--but he found that the city was growing on him.

"I'm _tired_ ," he said, when she looked up as his silence stretched. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed across his chest. "I'm lonely. I miss having someone _close_. I miss trusting someone enough to let them in my space.”

"Let's get through the opening and then I'm gonna set you up. Deal?" Robin said, and moved closer to lean against his shoulder. It wasn’t exactly a hug but it was just as warm, coming from her. "Three months left, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Three months. _And then_ the three after that making sure this place doesn't go up in flames," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "And then I _still_ have another fucking book to write."

"Yeah? So find someone who likes food to test recipes on," she said, shrugging. "Not _that_ hard."

" _When_?!"

"I told you! Let's get through the opening and then I’ll set you up! I got the perfect guy and everything," She reached up to ruffle his hair, then frowned. "You need a trim. You're all split ends, sunshine."

He wasn’t historically proud of his temper, he really wasn’t. But she truly, definitely, completely deserved the muffin crumbs he dumped down the back of her shirt. He wasn’t proud of running from her, either, but she had _really_ bony knuckles.

Friday night, Pretty Boy was in his own kitchen. His stupid fluffy hair hung over his forehead, head bopping to some song Billy couldn't hear. He watched for as long as he dared, and then looked away the moment it looked like Pretty Boy's head was lifting. 

He thought about the swooping curl of hair hanging over Pretty Boy's forehead, imagined brushing it off and away.

He'd never admit it to Robin--never even _dream_ of admitting to spying on the apartment across the street--but his deepest fantasy was making dinner with someone. Standing next to someone, brushing shoulders, stealing tastes.

It's what he imagined, looking out his window at the apartment across the street. Imagined Pretty Boy pressed into his side, being an menace, stealing his spoon, his hand, his mouth for a lick. Setting things on fire, them soaked through and laughing together as the sprinklers went off overhead. 

Imagined slow dancing, maybe. Lights low, timer ticking away, dirty dishes lying ignored in the sink. Nothing but them and whatever they'd made together.

It was a nice fantasy, but it only made him even more lonely than he'd been before.

He chanced a glance up to see Pretty Boy scowling down at what must have been his stove. He caught sight of a faint curl of smoke and chuckled to himself.

Pretty Boy couldn't cook to save his life, apparently. It was funny on Billy's bad days, and endearing on his good, and always, _always_ , something he wanted to witness close up. He ached to bundle him close and wipe the disappointment from his pretty face. 

Billy indulged himself and watched him for a few more moments, just until Pretty Boy hung his head in defeat and spun to grab his phone to call in takeout. He turned off the stove, where his own dinner had been slowly simmering, just waiting on him to watch his fill.

He sighed and set to work filling himself a bowl. It wasn't soup weather yet, but nothing beat chicken noodle soup. It wasn't the fancy shit expected of him, wasn't the recipe he was toying with including in his book, and it _certainly_ wasn't gonna end up on the menu anytime soon. 

It was what he used to make for him and Max, once she'd found him again. Frozen, crinkle cut carrots, boiled until they were mush, holding form with nothing much more than a prayer. A whole onion, size dependent on the mood of whoever got stuck with the job. Ground thyme and sage, enough pepper to make the whole floor sneeze. A bag of Reames, a whole rotisserie chicken, shredded. One can of Swansons, if they had the extra cash, and six more cans of water. Frozen peas, thrown in at the end so they didn't mush.

Salt. All the salt. So much salt. Just salt the whole bitch right up. 

Serve with whatever they found on her roommate's Netflix account and beer stolen from Cath, down the hall, who never locked her door.

He smiled to himself and thought about calling her up. But it was Friday. Friday's were her date night and he'd learned not to interrupt. Didn't mean he _wasn't_ tempted to do it anyway. Before he could make a grave mistake and get back on Max’s bad side, the phone buzzed at his side.

"'Sup Buck?" he muttered around a mouthful of overcooked noodles, half paying attention to whatever he'd let autoplay on screen.

" _Buck? Do I look like some grizzled cowboy?_ "

"You don't want me to answer that."

Robin made an affronted sound, " _Ass. Not like you're daisy-fresh yourself._ "

"I'm goddamn gorgeous, fuck you," he grumbled, and got a derisive snort in response. "What do you want?"

" _Okay, so. Jasmine tea panna cotta while we've got the plums in season,_ " she began, listing off her menu, paring it down further and further. " _Then the caramelized popcorn ice cream, and..._ "

He could do this. This was easy. This was enough to take him away from the loneliness and empty couch next to him. For a few minutes, at least. Robin had been struggling the past month to pare down her expansive portion of the menu. And, while she did ask for it, she didn’t actually _want_ his opinions, she just liked having a person to talk at.

Truth be told, he didn’t often actually listen when she called to list food at him. All she needed him to do was hum in the right places and not hang up. She’d told him that, too. Years before, both of them fresh out of culinary school and working their way up from glorified dishwashers. Both of them fresh off of heartbreak and far too gay to be eachother’s rebounds, they spent one sticky summer night on their building’s roof, getting drunk on stolen cognac and airing their grievances.

She needed someone to listen to her ideas, not take them from her. And with both of them tragically single and chronically busy, that meant Billy was her wall to throw ideas at. 

He did appreciate the trust she put in him, but it was hard to hold his tongue when he wasn’t even getting laid. The things he did for family.

On the other end of the line, Robin had been muttering something about raspberry tarts and whipped lemon verbena something or other when she broke off with startled noise that made him flinch back from the phone.

“Ow, _jesus_.”

“ _What now?_ ” she muttered, voice distant as she took the phone away from her face for a moment. “ _Aw, shit. Gotta go._ "

"Am I keeping you from Heather?" he teased, stirring the gluey dregs of his cooling soup.

" _No, my favourite dingus is having a pity party and wants company_ ," she grumbled, sighing dramatically. " _I wish this goddamn thing was done so I could finally set you two nerds up_."

There was an ache in his chest. "I am _not_ a nerd."

She scoffed, " _Bullshit,_ " and then hung up.

He stared at his phone a few seconds longer, willing it to light up with a text or a call or even just an _email_ , but nothing came. He sighed, nodded to himself, and stood. Might as well clean up his mess, it would just annoy him if he hand to look at dirty dishes in the morning,

Across the way, Pretty Boy was pacing and wailing into his phone. 

He shook his head and made room for the pot in his fridge. If nothing else, he had plenty to feed himself for the next week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I have feelings about grilled cheese. Thank you for your time.
> 
> EDIT: I made a master list of all the recipes/foods mentioned in the story so far! If you're curious, you can find it over on my [tumbls](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/613219424339640320/lamp-bright-rind-food-masterlist) and I'll update it as we go!

" _Why_ ," Robin lamented, sprawling herself over the counter. "Fuck small plates. Who had _that_ dumb idea? What are we _doing_?" 

"I _told_ you it was stupid, and you didn't listen," he grumbled, angrily tapping his pen again his notebook. Where she had too many menu items to choose from, he was struggling to fill his half. And with _blights_ fucking ruining his plans, all he was feeling was _pissed_. "What are _you_ so worried about, anyway? Most of your ingredients are easy to gather year-round. _I'm_ the one who just had to knock sprouts off the menu."

"I'm worried because _you're_ worried." She kicked out at him, lightly, to take some of the snap out of the statement. "You gonna replace it?"

"Maybe."

Robin hummed into the stainless countertop. "Put the lamb belly tacos back on. I know you're still butt hurt about that."

"But--"

"Oh, _please_. Two types of tacos is _fine_."

He sighed. She was right, of course. If she could have _four goddamn types of ice cream_ , he could damn well have two different types of tacos. "Alright. Lamb belly tacos, yes; duck tacos, yes; brussel sprouts, no; smoked salmon, yes; that waffle thing you like, no; shrimp--"

"Aw, what's wrong with the waffles?" she griped, sitting up. She was pouting, but it was mostly to lighten the mood. _Mostly_. She loved those waffles.

Which was good, because he was about to bore her to _death_ talking ingredients and costs and fucking _blight_ and all the things she dreaded.

Pretty Boy was home for once on a Saturday night, but he wasn't alone. There was a woman and another man with him. Pretty Boy seemed a little tense and uneasy, but he was smiling. Billy watched for a few seconds, then moved to turn the kitchen light on.

When he glanced at the window again, he caught just his reflection. 

He shook himself and turned toward the fridge to begin gathering and assembling his project for the night. For once, he had his own company for the evening. He and Max had decided to try out the grilled cheeses to pair with the smokey tomato soup he'd made. Or, rather, he'd mentioned he needed to do that during their last Biweekly Sibling Brunch--it was a Sunday morning bloody mary bar at the dive near her apartment, but brunch sounded more accurate considering Max liked an entire _salad_ in hers--and she'd demanded his spare key and invited herself over.

He'd narrowed it down to a few pairings, and he liked having Max's input, anyway. He mostly just liked having some excuse to invite her over, keep her close.

He tried not to think about how quiet his life would be when she stopped needing him. Not that she really _did_ , but every college student lived for free food.

He distracted himself by imagining Pretty Boy sitting at the kitchen island, just watching. Billy liked to imagine he was teasing and smart. Snarky, quick with a quip, and always softened with an indulgent smile. Billy imagined his chin resting in a hand, just watching the other absently playing with the label of whatever fancy beer he liked drinking. Imagined a twinkle to his eyes, crinkles at the corners. He'd be grinning and smiling and he'd say something like--

"Where's my food, twatwaffle?"

He had only a second to brace before she slammed into his back in a rough tackle of a hug. "Did you find the place okay?" he asked, laughing and twisting to get an arm around her shoulders.

"Yup! Got a friend that lives nearby, so it was cake." She wormed her way beneath his arm and stuck her face over the sizzling skillet, her hair dangerously close to getting set on fire, _jesus_. “Can I help?" 

"You can serve the soup, if you want. Or you can go set up a movie. Just get away from the _actual_ _fire_ ," he said, quickly pushing her back a safe distance just to ease his own anxiety. If anyone was responsible for taking years off his life, it was Max. "There's not much left to do, I'll be done in, like, a minute."

She sighed like it was a chore, but immediately went for the bowls in the cabinet by the sink. And then checked the cabinet next to that. And then she gave him an unimpressed look and opened the dishwasher to grab two of the three bowls that he'd unpacked since moving in.

"Are you shitting me right now."

"I've been busy!"

"Your spare room is full of boxes, isn't it?"

He winced. "And the office. And there's more in the dining room."

Max rolled her eyes. "You're a disaster, Billy. You _do_ know that, right?"

"But a disaster who feeds you," Billy said with a wink, and then waved her off as he turned off the burner beneath the final sandwich. "Go on, I'll be out in a sec."

He listened to her hum and haw in the other room as she flipped between channels, and plated up sandwiches. Four toasted squares, each cut into four gooey triangles, equally distributed and artfully arranged on two big plates. He considered garnishing with parsley, just to make Max roll her eyes at him, but he was too hungry to care.

She made grabby hands at the plate in his hands. "Okay, hit me with some cheese."

"Okay, Red Rock cheddar and gruyere on sourdough," he said, pointing to each of the triangles of toasty, greasy bread and cheese. "Havarti, muenster, smoked ham and dijon on pumpernickel; bourbon onion jam, mayo and smoked gouda on country white; and toad in the hole with applewood bacon, sharp cheddar, and american."

"Who needs arteries, anyway?" she said, dunked a wedge of sandwich into her soup and then immediately shoved it into her mouth.

He didn't know why he was ever surprised that she and Robin got on. They were both disgusting.

He shook his head and made notes in his book as he ate and left Max to whatever shitty movie he was currently ignoring. Personally, he liked the onion jam and gouda the best. Robin had thrown in a vote for the pumpernickel--but mostly only because Heather had voted for it first, so her vote didn’t count.

One day they’d get it the fuck together, but it sure was taking a long time.

Eventually Max relaxed back into the couch, the last of her soup cradled to her chest and she sipped it. "You're real good at this," she murmured. "M'gonna get fat."

"Oh, _please_. I've seen the way you eat, if it hasn't happened yet, it won't happen at all," he grumbled, kicking her lightly. _She_ ate like a lunatic and _she_ didn't have to go to the gym four times a week, the little snot.

She kicked him back and then looked thoughtful. "I like the first one best with the soup."

Billy made a face. "Really? That's, like, the _boring_ one. I wasn't even planning on putting that in the running!"

"Well, why did you include it if you don't want it?" Max exclaimed, smacking his arm with a greasy hand.

"The cheddar was about to go off and I didn’t want to waste it!"

"Yeah, well, ya done fucked up, kid," Max said, consolingly.

He sighed, "Alright, _fine_. I'll bite. Why is _that one_ your favourite?"

"Is the star the soup, or the sandwich?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter. "Because the soup is _incredible_. Right consistency, just sweet enough, not too much basil, not too much spice. It doesn't taste like that canned shit we used to get, but it _feels_ like it, you know? It feels like _home_. But it isn't _boring_ , it's full of flavour, right?

"The other three, there's just too much going on. They're _good_ , really good, but they're gonna fight the soup, which is already complex all on its own," she said, nudging the coffee table with a foot. "The first one compliments it more. Keep the toad in the hole sandwich, serve it with, like, fried tomatoes or something. That's a Sunday hangover cure if I ever saw it. But the Red Rock and sourdough is the clear winner."

He studied her for a long moment, just long enough to make her ansty. "Why'd you have you go off and study something _noble,_ like medicine? You'd be so much easier to work with than Buckley."

She grinned and laughed. "You know I'm gonna tell her you said that."

"Avenge my death," he said, solemnly.

She cackled, and reached for another wedge of sandwich.

It was nice, getting to have a sister, finally. Growing up had been-- _tough_ wasn't a big enough word for it. He'd survived it--came out stronger, made himself _better_ \--but not without scars. Not without burned bridges and smoking wreckage. 

He turned 18 and left town with a haphazardly packed camaro, enough gas money to make it to the state line, bruised ribs and blood running down his face. He remembered Max's look of betrayal, then anger as she stormed out, before she could see the damage Neil was about to do. Susan saw, though. Susan watched as Neil tried to _kill him_. Watched the photos of his mom _burn_. 

She watched him speed away, and did _nothing_. 

And then Max showed up at his dorm, three years later. A half-healed shiner and split lip, enough clothes for a week's stay, and the last photo she could find of he and his mother. She'd thrown herself at him with an apology he didn't need and tears he didn't know how to stop, and she hadn't left.

"You should really put up some pictures," she said, softly, looking around at the bare, grey walls. "You haven't even _unpacked_ yet."

He winced, and nodded. "Old habits, and all." He offered a tight smile and a shrug, "I'm not used to _staying_ , you know? Like, I'm always just somewhere while I wait to go somewhere else."

"But you _are_ staying this time, right?" she asked, voice firm and eyebrows lifted in a mildly threatening manner.

" _Yes_ , I'm here for good," he said, and ruffled her hair. "It's a lot to get used to, though."

"Yeah, well, when you get some free time, you'll have to start coming to game night," she said, with a decisive nod. "Make some friends, be sociable and _nice_ so Lucas stops being afraid of you."

"I've always been nice to him!" And Billy had, too. He'd also just let him know, _quietly_ , exactly what would happen if he hurt Max at all. After she had her shot, of course. 

"Shovel talks aren't nice, butthead," she grumbled. Her phone buzzed and she groaned as she read over the text. "And I'm missing game night, now, too! You should feel special, I don't skip a chance to fuck up Mike's whole shit for just _anyone_."

"I thought you were, like, the clerk or whatever, they wouldn't play without you," he said.

"Okay, I dunno why anyone calls you a barbarian because you are _such_ a bard. First of all, the word is _cleric_ , and I know you know that. Second, you _know_ I'm not a goddamn cleric, I am a paladin. Paladins are way better," she said, as if any of that made a lick of sense. "Third, a couple people were busy tonight, so they broke out Small World."

Billy waved half a sandwich at the tv, "Yeah? Well do they have… whatever this is?" He squinted at the screen, trying to decipher just what was happening. Was a house killing people? _What_? He gave her a helpless look. "What _is_ this?"

She feigned a look of disgust at him, had to her chest. "Uncultured _swine_."

"Vengeful brat."

" _Whoremonger_."

He opened his mouth to sling another insult at her, but paused to do the math. "Shit, am I on _x_?"

She gave him an evil look, "Good luck."

He _hated_ getting x. He _always_ got x. 

"And you can't call me a xenomorph again," she said, before he could do exactly that. "You used that the last three times."

He narrowed his eyes and sat back, silently swearing revenge. As far as games went, he hated that one. Max was far too creative to compete with.

She smiled down at her phone for the third time in as many minutes and he rolled his eyes. "Alright, I can be ignored alone," he grumbled, good-naturedly, and dragged her into a rough hug. "Go get your boy, trouble maker."

She hopped off the couch, all bright and happy. She smiled and nodded, but otherwise didn’t move. And then she continued to stand and stare at him, smile expectant and waiting. “ _So_? You got the goods or what?”

 _The goods_ was, of course, the leftover soup that he hadn’t realized was part of the agreement she had reached when she invited herself over, but he was happy to send her off with a large tupperware bowl. He didn’t tell her that, _of course_ , but he was happy all the same. 

And it certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t quickly scrolling through google results as he followed her toward the apartment door. 

“We still on for next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he promised. He pressed a kiss to the top her her head and shoved her out the door. “Knock ‘em dead.”

She laughed as she wandered toward the elevator. “Always do!”

“One more thing.” He leaned out into the hall, yelled after her, " _Xanthodontous_ bitch!" before slamming the door on her indignant shout. His neighbors loved him, they really did.

Inside, off went whatever bloodbath Max had been watching, and into the sink went plates and pans and everything else he didn’t really want to deal with. It wasn’t _late_ , but the place was quite and suddenly much less full of life without anyone else around. Much less warm. It made him want to just go to bed, hide somewhere warm and dark where it didn’t matter that his walls were empty and bare because he couldn’t see them.

But when he dimmed the kitchen lights, he could see a square of light through his window. Bright yellow and warm and calling for him. 

With the lights low, he could see Pretty Boy again. 

He was up to his elbows in suds, back to the window as he washed dishes. He was dancing, hips swinging and swaying, head bobbing along to some song Billy couldn’t hear.

If he turned on something low and soft, something easy to sing to as he washed up, he could almost pretend he wasn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xanthodontous means to have yellow teeth, so Billy just called her a Yellow-Toothed Bitch, and it is my go-to insult for when I get stuck with x because I ALWAYS GET X.
> 
> Anyway. I also have a [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) like. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild Steve Harrington appears. Just... a lot closer than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I don't need to work on LBR right now, I have a chapter ready to go, but I can work on my other series for a few days.  
> Me: Or I could figure out that other loose collection of boys being soft..  
> Me:  
> Me:  
> Me: But I DO have a LBR chapter ready....
> 
> What I'm saying is I have impulse control issues. Have another chapter! It's cute! Steve is here! Yay! I really am going to work on my other series now tho...
> 
> Also, no food in this chapter, but I have started a [master list of food](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/613219424339640320/lamp-bright-rind-food-masterlist) mentioned and referenced in this fic over on tumblr if you're interested!

He hadn't actually lived in the building long. Just two months. He hadn't even finished unpacking, hadn't decorated, hadn't painted. His DVDs and books were still stored away and he was currently working with two pairs of jeans and a cycle of about seven shirts. Hell, Robin hadn't even been to the place yet. They usually gathered at her place if they had any moments free to relax, if only because it was closer to the restaurant.

All he’d done in two months was write half a menu, get angry about a cookbook, grow approximately two tomatoes, and fantasize about a stranger.

Two months and he'd imagined every possible scenario for meeting Pretty Boy. At the market down the block, getting coffee across the street, reading in his favourite park. He'd imagined reaching for the same book at the little used book shop a few blocks over, the one with the fat tabby that liked to fall asleep on his feet. Maybe he’d spot him leaning against the bar somewhere, and Billy would sidle up and buy him a drink. He imagined Robin's set-up no-showing and Pretty Boy swooping in for a charming rescue. 

Never, in any of those fantasies, did he imagine Pretty Boy simply _knocking on his door_.

Billy blinked a few times, but the man didn't disappear. 

He was _blushing_ , his smile sheepish and crooked. His eyes were the colour of whiskey, glittering amber in the cool hallway light. His skin was dotted with moles and tiny marks that Billy wanted to trace with his-- _well_ , it was a wild thing to notice when a man he was certain _hadn't_ noticed him was standing, uninvited, in his doorway.

"Uh, okay, hi, so--I know this is weird, but--"

"How did you get up here?" Billy asked, still reeling. 

Pretty Boy winced. "Keith knows me. A friend used to live in this building, so he's used to me coming and going."

" _Okay_ ," Billy said, slowly, brain fizzling out. "Right. So… why are you _here_?"

"Right, _that_! So, I live in the building next door," he said, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, as if Billy didn't know. "Directly across from you, actually. Our kitchen windows line up."

"Sure, that's--"

"Yeah, yeah, my best friend says it's creepy and invasive," he said, quickly, flapping a hand in a much too flippant way. "Anyway, I noticed that you cook a lot. Like, and you look like you're probably pretty good at it?"

"Was that a question?"

“Well, kinda? I mean, I can only see you a little bit, so it's not like I _know_ , but…" He sighed and deflated a little. "Okay, listen," he said, one hand on his hip and the other gesticulating wildly. "So I can't cook. Like, _at all_. So bad. I burn Hamburger Helper."

"And what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Can I pay you to teach me to cook?" he asked, pretty face scrunching further up into a wince with each word. "Pay you a lot and I'll buy the ingredients? And bring my own pans so I don't destroy yours? _And_ beer?"

"Why me?"

"Because if I ask one of my friends, they'll make fun of me."

" _I'm_ gonna make fun of you," Billy said, but he would at least try to be charming about it.

"Yeah, but I don't _know you_! It's… it hurts worse when they do it," he muttered, deflating a little more. "Sorry, I just… I looked at classes, but, like… I don't do well in groups?"

Billy sighed. Because it _was_ creepy and invasive and way worse than even his creepiest fantasies of meet cutes. But, also, because he was very definitely going to say _yes_. 

Pretty Boy took his silence as hesitation and turned his big, brown, bambi eyes on him. " _Please_?"

Billy dropped his chin to his chest in defeat, scrubbed a hand over his face. "You don't need to pay me."

He made a triumphant sound and thrust a scrap of paper out toward Billy. His handwriting was terrible, but Billy could make out digits of a phone number. "Here, just, I'm home most nights, so just, like, when you have time just let me know and I'll come over," he said, excited and bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

"Okay, I'll, uh text you, I guess. Send me a list of, like, things you want to learn to cook," Billy said, slipping the paper into his pocket, pretending that he hadn’t memorized it in just the moment’s glance. "Couple nights a week?"

"Yes! That's perfect, thank you!" he said, relief written across his face. He kept making some aborted movements, like he wanted to hug or grab him. Billy wouldn't have minded _in the least_. Pretty Boy's grin was _big_ and bright and he thrust a hand out, "I'm Steve. Steve Harrington."

"Uh, Billy Hargrove," he said. The hand was warm in his own, his skin soft but his fingertips were lightly rough with callouses.

"Good to meet you, sorry for being a creep."

Billy snorted and reluctantly released him. "It's fine. I mean, it's _weird_ , but it's fine."

 _Steve_ winced again, chuckling. "Sorry again, and _thank you_. So much."

"Don't thank me yet, I'm not a nice teacher," he said, then sighed again. He wasn’t gonna be mean; he was gonna be _nice_ and _patient_ and _kind_ to this fool. It was inevitable. "I've got some time tomorrow evening," he said, and shrugged. "So just, send me what you want to make, and I'll tell you what ingredients to get. Just come on over when you get off work."

"Right, cool." He gave Billy a grin and a jaunty sort of salute, "See ya tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Uh, good night?"

He waved and bounced out of the doorway. "Night! Thanks, Billy!"

So. Steve. Steve Harrington. The man he'd spent two months spying on. The man he had a big old fat crush on. The man he'd imagined fucking over every surface of his home. The man he'd very, definitely fantasized about _marrying_ at least twice. 

_Steve_ was going to be in his kitchen.

Shit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i stfg i'm gonna take a fucking break this time. do you know how long its been since i *READ* a fic? DO YOU?? 
> 
> Anyway. Here's a new chapter. Robin and Billy being bros gives me life. Steve will be being cute next chapter. 
> 
> Also, Food Masterlist for this chapter is over [here](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/tagged/lamp-bright-rind) on the tumbls! Come say hi!

He'd woken up with _ideas._

Which wasn’t exactly _new_ , but he woke up with a bit of a spark in his gut that had him bouncing awake earlier than usual.

He was out of bed and in the restaurant kitchen a full two hours before Robin usually woke. He made a run to his favourite market and was back and hip deep in prep another full hour before Robin agreed to even show up. He had the counters littered with plates and pots and pans by the time she finally _did_ deign to show her face.

Hell, he hadn’t even done much to his hair that morning other than pile it into a messy knot on the top of his head and run out the door.

"What the hell are _you_ up to?" she asked, sniffing loudly as she made her way into the room. "What-- _whoa._ Been busy?"

"I had some ideas and needed to test them," he said, absently. He squeezed a lime over the taco he'd just finished plating and shoved it across the counter toward her. "Here, try this."

She rolled her eyes at him, but tugged the plate closer. "But we already have _two tacos,_ " she teased, but dutifully shoved half the thing into her mouth because she was gross like that. _God_ , he’d surrounded himself with gross women. He _chose_ her. On purpose. "Billy, holy shit."

"Yeah?"

"What’s this fucking spice? It’s great _._ "

"Remember that coffee-spice blend we got from Rohan? I tried to recreate it, don't think I got _close_ , obviously, but--"

"But nothing, this is _great_!" She gave him a greedy, expectant look. "What else have you got?"

He grinned. "Pumpkin-coffee soup going on the stove, cumin roasted string beans and I'm thinking a tahini dressing. Brown butter carrots with, like, hazelnuts. A couple, admittedly _seasonal_ things. Like, bread sauce and parsnip chips."

" _What?_ "

"I know, but I wanna try it!" He was grinning, and it felt _odd_ that he’d been doing it all morning. “There’s also some marmite-glazed parsnips over there to go with the prosciutto-wrapped beef tips that I’ve been fucking with.”

"You've been _busy_." 

He shrugged, then grinned and waved his notebook at her. "I woke up hungry."

Robin laughed and rubbed her hands together. "Alright, let's make it happen. What do you need me to do?"

“First, take this,” he said and thrust the list toward her, then waved her toward the other plates--and plates and _plates_ \--of food. “Go try all those and then mark down which you like and which you don’t. That’s the first thing I need. Then we can get started on the second page.”

Greedily, Robin snatched the pages from his hand, pouring over them as she went.

"We are _not_ putting _bone luge_ on the menu, Hargrove!"

"But, and just hear me out here," Billy said, and raised a hand toward her in a placating manner, as he reached for the phone buzzing in his pocket, "what if we _did_."

“Bills, baby, _no._ ”

“You say that _now_ , but I got that shit roasting right.” 

“I hate you.”

He scoffed, “You love me. I feed you.”

She scrunched her nose, but didn’t argue. She looked like she wanted to, of course, simply on principal, but Billy knew he was right on both accounts.

**_Pretty Boy_** _: 6sh wrk 4 u??_

He wanted to hate him, but he found it charming. _God_ , it was going to be a rough fucking night if he continued to find every single thing about Steve _charming_. 

_Sounds good. Just come on up. Got everything?_

That morning, when Billy had sent over an introductory text, Steve had responded that the first thing he wanted to learn to make would be spaghetti. To which Billy had reminded him that canned sauce existed. And Steve had declared that to be cheating and demanded Billy teach him how to make sauce from scratch.

And, well, Billy was a sucker.

**_Pretty Boy_** _: ya!_

**_Pretty Boy_** _: u sur this is all??? dosnt seem lik alot_

_Who is the teacher here?_

**_Pretty Boy_** _: gud studnets ask qs_

_Fine. Yes, I promise that’s all you’ll need. Better?_

**_Pretty Boy_** _: yis thx_

Billy shook his head in fond disgust and shoved the phone into his pocket. Max typed like that most of the time, just to annoy him, but he got the feeling Steve was just _like that_. And it was adorable. He hated it.

“Hargrove, goddamn it.” 

“What _now_?”

“You did all this shit _today_?” Robin looked equal parts hungry, disgusted and impressed. In all fairness, she gave him that look a lot. “We’re gonna have your shit worked out by, like 3.”

He shrugged and gave her a cocky little smirk. “I’m just that good, I guess.”

“One of these is just fancy tuna salad!”

“Yeah? But does it taste good?”

“But it’s _tuna salad_. Fancy onions doesn’t mean it’s _not_ tuna salad,” she grumbled, clearly speaking around a mouthful. “Is this one just _poutine_?”

He scoffed. “When have you ever known me to _just_ do anything? Does _just_ poutine have a sunflower shoot chimichurri?”

Robin hesitated a moment, then said, slowly. “ _No_ …”

“You’re right, it doesn’t, so shut the fuck up and eat it.”

He liked cooking with Robin. She might have been a deft hand at desserts and sweet things, but she’d got the same training he had. They’d been side-by-side, almost since the start. Bitter enemies, malevolent pranksters, reluctant drinking buddies, gay disasters, holy terrors, partners in crime; they’d done it all, and they’d done it together.

And standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her, even just in the quiet of a shiny, new kitchen-- _their_ kitchen--felt like home. Maybe not Chicago, not yet, but standing at his best friend’s side, making food-- _their food_ \--was the closest he’d felt to it in awhile. 

Brunch with Max was a close one, and having her over to his place, _finally_ , was even closer. But that shitty dive wasn’t his, and the apartment was bare and empty and didn’t feel like much of a home yet. _This_ though, felt a hell of a lot closer to what he thought a home was supposed to be. Reminded him of soft sand and sunlight and cool waves lapping at his ankles. 

It was easy to get lost there, to fall into a familiar rhythm as they worked through the recipes he’d scribbled out. And they _did._ They worked the day away until they’d finished his list, and then they worked out a few more. Until finally, _somehow_ , they finally had a menu laid out in front of them. It was still a little lengthy, but it was _finished_. 

"Okay, I think we got _you_ covered," Robin said, knocking him out of his thoughts, as she looked over the wrinkled yellow pages. "Hell, specials for the first three _months_ taken care of, jesus."

"Now we just need to finalize the dessert menu and get Heather in to finish up the cocktail menu," he said, feeling giddy about the whole mess. They almost had a real fucking _restaurant_. "You said you had a friend to manage the front?"

"Yeah, friend of a friend, Nancy," she said, stifling a yawn. "I don't think you'll _like_ her, but you'll like how good she is at her job. No nonsense, smart as hell, a bit of dick at times. She won’t let you get away with _shit_."

He shrugged, "As long as she doesn't step on my toes, who cares? I just--I want this to _work_. I can swallow my pride and play along if it means we don't crash and burn."

“Cool, I’ll have her stop in next week?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. She a decorator, too?”

Robin made a face, tilting her head a little. “I mean… _no_. But she’s got an eye, I guess. Might be good to have around while we’re dressing the place up.”

“We could certainly use it,” he said, and received a salute in the form of a raised asparagus fry. “You still got the pottery tours set up for later in the week?”

“Yeah. It’d be nice to have Nancy with us for that, too, but I think she’s out of town with her husband until Saturday.” Robin shoved a few more fries into her mouth, as if they hadn’t both been nibbling on various bits and bites all day. “I’m beat. Drinks?”

He stretched, groaned, and began gathering up his papers. "I'm gonna head out, actually. Got plans tonight."

"Don't tell you've got a date," she grumbled, pouting a little. "I've got the _perfect guy_!"

"No, not a date, come on. Just helping a neighbor with something." When he looked back up, she was frowning at him, thoughtful and assessing. “What? Have I got somethin’ on my face?”

“Yeah, a great big ol’ smile," she said, head tilted as she studied him. "I like you like this. You've changed so much, but I never really noticed, you know? I mean, you've grown a lot, but you seem… happier lately."

And he _was_ . Not just since his impromptu visitor the night before, and despite being lonely and possibly, maybe, just a _little bit_ touch starved. He was _happier_ . His sister was closer than she’d been since that year spent sharing a rat trap in Boston. Robin was close. Heather was close. Max was happy, had a good boyfriend, had good _friends_ . He and Robin had a fucking _restaurant_ , all their own. It was… good.

"I think… I'm finally realizing that he's not gonna just spring out of the shadows and destroy everything I've built, you know?" He shrugged, looking at his hands. New burns and cuts from years of working in kitchens layered over scraped knuckles and scars of his past. He could almost forget they were there. "I finally feel like I'm _really_ free of him."

Robin nodded in understanding. She didn’t need him to spell it out, never did, when it came to his dad. She’d wrangled some vague stories out of him, and was smart enough to put the rest together. "Good. I mean, fucking--it _sucks_ that it took this long, but… you deserve to feel safe." She paused, and then frowned up at him, eyes narrowed dangerously, “You _do_ know that, don’t you?”

"Yeah. I'm finally getting the hang of that." And he _was_. It wasn’t just a lie he told himself anymore.

It was Robin who moved first. She pulled him into a rare, tight hug, head resting on his shoulder. It was nice. It was _odd_ , but it was nice. He returned the hug just as tight, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "We never speak of this again," he murmured, and felt her laugh against his shoulder.

"Love you, too. Asshole."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both soft, soft dorks. That's it. That's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep giving people professions that I know nothing about. I'm not actually a masochist, I swear! I know very little about law and lawyering and attorneys. Like, I work with them, but at the bare minimum. So I'm just gonna say a bunch of vague shit and pretend it's right. Cool, glad we had this chat! Also, I didn't plan out what Steve's dad actually does. He's just an asshole. That's all we need from him.
> 
> Also, the song Steve briefly sings along to is Lookin' Out My Back Door by Creedence Clearwater Revival
> 
> The whole ass entire recipe from this chapter can be found over [here](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/613708761206603776/lamp-bright-rind-chapter-6) on tumblr!

Billy arrived back at his apartment at a little past 5. Which gave him just enough time to clean his kitchen, his living room, dig out a few more bits of dinnerware, clean them, unpack a small selection of cleanish clothes, lightly Febreeze them, take his hair down, put it up again, wash his face, change outfits three times, touch up his cologne, take his hair down again, put on some music, change the music, make tea, put his hair back up and button his shirt up past his nipples, because he didn't want to be _too_ forward.

By the time Steve knocked on his door at 6:07, Billy had somehow managed to convince himself that he wasn't actually nervous, he was simply out of breath. 

Steve was grinning at him, a few canvas shopping bags hanging off his shoulders. Fucking _radiant_ in a ratty band tee that Billy didn’t recognize and a pair of ratty jeans. "Hey! Still cool for me to invade?"

Billy rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't have texted if I wasn't. Come on in."

Steve didn't seem put off by him, which was a point in his favour. He just grinned and bounced into the apartment, excited as a puppy. He skipped along behind Billy, as he led the way toward the kitchen, “I really can’t thank you enough for this, man!”

“You say that now, but I have it on good authority that I’m a terrible teacher.” Lucas reminded him of that fact every time anyone brought up Billy’s famous chocolate chip cookies--consequently, _Max’s_ favourite recipe. _Apparently_ , Billy was _mean_. _Billy_ thought Lucas needed to stop being a scaredy-cat and listen to his instructions, but who was he to judge, really? Everyone learned in different ways.

“Eh, doubt it,” Steve said, easily as he dumped his bags on the count and began unloading. “I mean, you didn’t call the cops on me when I showed up at your door and demanded you teach me to cook. You can’t be _that_ bad.”

“There’s a difference between _nice_ and _good_ , Steven.”

“Eh. Potato, tow-mah-tow,” and then laughed, softly, to himself at his own joke. Billy didn’t find it endearing. Not one bit. It _was not_ cute. He bopped his head along to Creedence Clearwater Revival and organized his goods, as if Billy wasn’t standing behind him having an internal struggle. 

"Steve, there's no harm in sauce from a jar," Billy said, watching him line ingredients up on the counter so he didn’t watch the way Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. "You _do_ know that, right?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, but all my friends--most of who are basically _my children_ \--can cook, and they’re, like, _real fuckin’ good at it_. And I can barely take care of myself, _apparently_. So, by god, I'm gonna learn the basics." He gave a decisive nod, “And if I _don’t_ get the hang of it, they don’t even have to know. Win-win, perfect system, nothing can go wrong.”

Billy shook his head a little, biting down a grin. "Alright, if you insist."

“I insist,” Steve confirmed, spinning to face him again. His smile was wide and _eager_. He even had a notebook and pen, ready to take _notes_. 

Billy was so _fucked._

"Alright, first step, cook your pasta." He nodded toward the already boiling pot on the stove. “Clearly, I started that part already. I haven’t salted it, though. There’s a little pot behind that can of tomatoes there.” 

And Steve, the darling, dropped a _pinch_ of salt into the pot. _A pinch_. “First lesson, _salt_ ,” he said and tipped a healthy heap out of the salt pot and into the boiling water.

At his side, Steve made a surprised sound. “More?”

"Steve, sweetheart, I did say _salt_ ," he murmured, a little bit more into the boiling water. "You want that shit like the ocean."

There was a tiny, little blush on his cheeks, as he nodded and made a little note in his book. "That just… seems like a lot."

"It is, but you want it that way."

"Okay." He nodded to himself, and then frowned over at Billy. "Why?"

He smiled to himself again, pleased. "Because, unless you're making your own from scratch, it's the only time you can get any sort of seasoning into the pasta itself. And then there's the fact that it raises the boiling point of the water."

"And that's important because…?"

"Supposedly that makes it cook faster. Dunno if that’s true, but if I learned _anything_ from any old bastard I ever had to work for, it’s that.” He pointed a handful of pasta at Steve to make his point, before dumping it into the pot. “Salt your fucking pasta water.”

"Huh." Steve looked at the pot on the stove, a confused sort of frown marring his pretty, _pretty_ face. "Alright. Why would you wait until it's already boiling, though?"

"Less time for it to sit in your pan and corrode it."

"And why wait til it's boiling to put in pasta?"

"Less chance of overcooking it," he said, shrugging. “Less chance of it sticking together, or sticking to the pan."

Steve dutifully scribbled that down, too. "Cool."

"So why didn't you learn to cook?" Billy asked before he could stop himself. "How have you survived _this long_ without being able to cook?"

Steve shrugged, shoulders tense. "My parents didn't cook. They paid someone to, when they were home, but they weren't home all that often."

Ah, rich boy. Nice. Great. At least it made him about 15% less attractive, and 24% more annoying. Much safer. "And you just ordered pizza, or what?"

Steve's shoulders hunched a little, plush mouth drawn into a tight line. "Basically. I had a nanny for a bit, when I was younger, but she wouldn't let me in the kitchen. She didn't like me much, I don't think."

"And your parents just left you?"

"Yep." Short, clipped. A _nerve_.

"So why now?"

Steve shrugged again. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "Why not?"

Billy nodded. Conversation over and done, if he ever heard it. He could take a hint. He didn’t _want to_ , he wanted to push and dig, but he liked to think he’d grown as a person. And Steve was _nice_ , so. "Alright, when the pasta is done in, like, ten minutes, we’re gonna keep a little less than half a cup of pasta water," he said, and decided to stave off Steve's questions. "Seasoning, but it also has all that starch in it to help thicken the sauce as it finishes cooking. Help it cling to the pasta a little better."

He heard the scratch of pen on paper as Steven quickly scribbled that note down.

“While that’s going, start chopping your shit.”

Steve nodded, and moved to stand at the chopping board Billy had set out for him to use. He hopped a little in place as he awaited Billy’s instructions. "Okay, cool. Tell me what."

"Two or three cloves of garlic, lightly crushed and finely chopped. And then finely chop the bunch of parsley," he said, scribbling ingredients down on the notebook Steve had brought. 

"First, how fine is _fine_?" he asked, grabbing the garlic bulb from his pile of ingredients. "Second, is there, like, a _proper_ way to chop things?"

Billy blinked at his back, dread pooling in his gut. He couldn’t possibly be _that_ hopeless. "Steve, don't break my heart. Not like this."

"I _did_ tell you I couldn't cook," he said, grinning sheepishly. 

"Do you even have knives in your own kitchen?"

"Yeah, like, a housewarming gift, but…"

"Christ." He was gonna be the death of Billy. "Alright, jesus, I'm gonna show you tonight and _tomorrow_ you're gonna come back and do it yourself. Okay? _And_ you’re going to bring your knives over for me to sharpen, I don’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself."

He nodded, eager and unperturbed by Billy being, well, _Billy_. "Yep, sure. Let's do this!"

Billy mustered up all the patience he had ever learned in his entire goddamn _life_ and tried his damnedest to remain calm. He tried to remain _charismatic_ , but it was a chore and a half. He'd never been a good teacher. 

But Steve was eager to learn, eager to please. He asked questions, a lot of them, but never stupid things. Not _really_ , anyway. They were questions from someone who’d never cooked a meal in his life, and Billy had to keep reminding himself that. Why crush _this_ , why canned _that_. It was _cute_ and, despite Billy’s deepest wishes, _charming._

“Can I just, like, run the tomatoes through a blender after I take all the guts out?” he asked, watching on as Billy mashed at the tomatoes with his spatula.

“If you _want_ , but I like the texture better this way.” Maybe that was another stress-reliever, if he thought about it. The same part of him that liked chopping garlic like smashing tomatoes. “If you’d rather, you can get a can of chopped tomatoes, or, like, _puree_ for tomorrow.”

“Is it less steps that way?” Steve asked, hopefully.

“Well, _yeah_. It is,” Billy said, making a face. “ _Technically_.”

“Okay, next question,” Steve said, clearly fighting a smile. “Will you hate me forever if I make it easier?”

Billy just rolled his eyes and reached for some silverware by the stove, “ _No_ , I won’t hate you. I’ll just be mildly disappointed in your choices.”

Steve pretended to think about it for a few seconds, finger tapping against his pouty lips. “I think I can live with that.

Billy rolled his eyes again. It was the safest option, really. "Okay, c'mere a sec," he said, waving Steve over as he fished a string of pasta out with a fork. "You can throw pasta all over your damn kitchen, but in _my_ house, we bite it like men." Billy bit the strand of pasta and shoved it toward Steve's face, simply to watch him try to go cross-eyed. "See that tiny little speck in the center? That's what you want."

And Steve, because he was, apparently, just _like that_ , delicately took the dangling end of pasta and followed Billy’s example. Which was… _something_. He bent close to get to it, close enough that soft hair licked gently at Billy’s chin. Close enough he caught the cloying scent of lavender, the sweet vanilla-spice of tonka, the clean jasmine and bergamot of his cologne. 

And then he pulled back, making a pinched sort of expression. “It’s undercooked. Like, I’m dumb as a stump, but I _do_ know that much.”

“Uh, yeah.” Billy was still reeling, and he hoped to hell and back that his cheeks weren’t flushed. He quickly tossed the noodle in the trash, before he didn’t something _stupid_. "Basically, slightly undercook it now, because you're going to finish cooking it in the sauce.”

"Okay, so, that's _al dente,_ " Steve said, nodding. He seemed fairly unconcerned by Billy’s internal struggle as he dipped the waiting measuring cup into the water, without even needing to be told, and set it aside. "What if I don't like it _al dente_?"

Billy made a face, but knew better than to fight it. He lifted the pan from the stove and carried it toward the colander he’d set in the sink. "Then cook it a little longer. But, because _I_ am the one cooking tonight, we're making it the _correct way_."

Steve muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _snob_ , but he was smiling. It was such a nice goddamn smile.

Billy shook his head and drained the water off. “Go ahead and dump the water into the sauce and give it a stir,” he said, setting the hot pan aside. 

“Stir _how_ , though?” 

“Oh my _god_ , you cannot _possibly_ be as bad at this as you are pretending,” Billy grumbled and turned to find Steve grinning at him. “You’re a menace.”

He just laughed, and stepped aside as Billy moved to dump the pasta into the sauce. He even dutifully offered the spatula to him. “Show me how it’s done, then.”

“Sure, yes, this is how you _properly stir pasta_.” He rolled his eyes and knocked a shoulder against Steve’s. “Now you’re just trying to be cute.”

And Steve just scoffed. “I never _try_.”

And wasn’t _that_ the truth. Billy just chuckled and set to work. He felt the warmth of Steve at his shoulder, watching him stir, watching the chunky sauce thicken and cling to the noodles. The phantom scent of tonka bean and lavender. “Huh.”

“Yeah, _huh_.” He chuckled and waved him off. “Make yourself useful and go get the plate and big fork over by the sink.”

“Aye aye, captain!”

“ _Dork._ ”

Steve didn’t seem phased when he popped back up at Billy’s side a few seconds later. “I’m gonna guess there’s an incredibly specific way to plate spaghetti, or am I wrong?”

Billy chuckled, “You’re not wrong. And honestly? It doesn’t fucking matter.”

Steve just rolled his eyes, “But if you learned _anything_ from any old bastard you’ve ever worked for…”

“Yeah, yeah, you little shit,” Billy laughed and snatched the plate away. Steve was disgusting. His face, stretched around a bright grin, was gross. Not cute at all. He shook his head and set to work plating up a pile of pasta for his Pretty Boy. He offered the plate and a clean fork to Steve, "Alright, here's how it _should_ taste."

Steve gave him an unconvinced look, and accepted the spaghetti. “And you’re _sure_ this is something I can do? Like, I don’t wanna eat it if you think I can’t make it.”

“ _You will_. I won’t let you fail, Steve,” he promised, and then awkwardly chucked Steve’s shoulder for reasons. “Go on, it’ll be fine.”

Steve sighed and nodded. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m _sure_. Just eat it, don’t be a brat.”

“M’not a _brat_ ,” Steve grumbled, and twirled his fork in the pasta. He gave Billy one last narrow-eyed look, and then _finally_ ate a goddamn bite of spaghetti. And then promptly groaned, loud and long. "Oh my _god_ , Billy," Steve wailed, collapsing against the counter. _Jesus_ , and he was dramatic. "This is so _good_ and I'm just gonna fuck it up!"

"You are _not_." He probably was, but Billy could dream. "That's why I gave you _very_ detailed instructions, and a _very_ easy recipe."

"Yeah, every recipe has detailed instructions, and I still fuck up!" He looked forlorn in his sprawl, still shoveling bites of pasta into his mouth. It was pathetic. Billy had to bite down on his cheek to keep from doing something ridiculous like _coo_ at how fucking cute he was.

"Yeah, but do you usually have the person who wrote the recipe standing right next to you?" He reached over the island to ruffle Steve's hair. _Fuck_ , it was so soft. Goddamn it. "You'll do _fine_ , Steve. I'll be here the whole time."

Pretty Boy looked _pitiful_ , but hopeful, too. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, okay. I can do this."

"You _can_ and you _will_ ," Billy said, gently patting his arm. "But using sauce from a jar is _fine_. As long as you can boil pasta, it's fine."

"Sure, whatever, but that's _not the point_."

Stubborn bastard. That 15% attractiveness had returned, with interest, and Billy was still completely, entirely fucking fucked. "Yeah, yeah. Eat your food."

He busied himself by storing the leftover spaghetti in a tupperware. He hummed along to CCR, still playing softly from his phone. He filled the sink with war, soapy water and gathered up the dirty dishes to wash. He kept himself busy so he didn’t sit himself down and just _watch_ Steve. Billy wasn’t _into_ food, but something about the idea of Steve--of someone he _wanted_ \--eating _Billy’s food._ Something he made with his own hands. Something about _that_ was a little more than Billy really needed at that moment.

So he distracted himself by cleaning

"So what do _you_ do?" Steve asked, stepping up to the sink. He slipped his empty plate and fork into the water and set to work scrubbing them clean. "Chef?"

"Got it in one."

"Aren't you usually busy at night?"

"I'll be busy again in a few months, once the restaurant opens," he said, shrugging. "What about you?"

"Attorney," he said, shrugging. "Some corporate stuff, so I can overcharge assholes and fund my pro bono cases. Not like--not like those big charity cases, not like… I'm not smart enough for that, I leave that to better attorneys. But I can do, like, divorces and custody hearings. Some probate stuff. Help people out of bad situations and stuff, you know?"

He said it casually, like that was normal. Not a brag, not anything more than a statement of fact. He turned those big doe eyes on Billy and _smiled_.

"Law is expensive, but corporations are bad, so I feel like it balances out a little."

"And what happens when they do something _evil_ and get taken to court?" Billy asked, pausing in his drying. "You still defend them?"

"I only stick it out if they're _genuinely_ good. It's few and far between, but sometimes it happens," Steve said, shrugging. "Happy to leave 'em high and dry, though, especially if they go against my usually very good, and morally _right,_ advice."

Billy chuckled and shook his head at this Pretty Boy, goody two-shoes, with his wild hair and soft smile. Who seemingly stole money from bad people so he didn’t have to charge people who couldn’t afford it. Who watched Billy through his window long enough to decide he was the best person to teach him to cook.

 _God_ , he was too goddamn ridiculous to exist. But there he was, brushing against Billy’s shoulder, his hands covered in soap suds.

"I think that's why I really wanna learn to cook and shit _now_ ," Steve said, absently. "My dad always wanted me to, like, _work for him_. Like, he'd have been perfectly happy if I didn't go to college and just started working at his company."

"Is that why you _did_ go?"

"Probably. I don't remember putting any _thought_ into it, other than just… wanting to prove that I could, you know? Like, I was a fucking _idiot_ in highschool, but I said I wanted to go first, instead of just joining the company," Steve said, and Billy wondered if he should be listening to this story at all. "Like, I _know_ it was just my parents' money that got me into college, but _fuck_ if I was gonna let that be what kept me there, you know? Even if I had to work, like, twice as hard as everyone else just _eek_ by, I was gonna do it.

"Anyway, so when I finally graduated and passed my exams, my dad hired me on," he said, shrugging. "My first client, and I was _still_ living off his money," Steve muttered, darkly. "But it opened doors, got me bigger clients. Dumber old, evil men to overcharge. Kept me busy. Gave me the _choice_ of telling people to fuck off."

"And you told your dad to fuck off," Billy guessed, quietly. 

"Took him awhile to well and truly fuck up, but he went against my advice, got taken to court and I just… couldn't." He rested his soapy hands against the sink, sighing. "Couldn't sell my soul like that, not even for my dad."

"Doesn't sound like he was much of a dad to begin with," Billy said, then winced. But Steve just chuckled.

"He wasn't _bad_ , he just.."

"Trust me, I'm an _expert_ in shit parents," he murmured. "Sometimes absence can be just as bad as-- _well_. Like I said, I’m an expert.”

Steve didn't look pitying, when he finally looked up and met Billy’s gaze head-on. There was understanding, maybe, but none of that sympathy that made his skin crawl. He offered a small smile and reached out to clasp his wrist for a few too-brief moments. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at him for a moment, his whiskey eyes soft.

The rest of the dishes went by in peaceful quiet, broken only by Steve singing, softly, _bother me tomorrow, today, I'll buy no sorrow_ under his breath, along with their quiet soundtrack. There weren’t enough dishes to keep them busy long. Certainly not enough to stretch the night out any longer, to give Billy any excuse to listen to Steve sing softly like that. Just a few short minutes, and then Billy was walking Steve to the door, about to watch him leave.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Billy nodded and offered what he hoped was a warm smile. "Sounds like a plan."

Steve hesitated a moment, then gave a small wave, "Good night, then. And _thank you_."

"Thank me when you actually make spaghetti."

He laughed, loud and clear, head thrown back to expose the long line of his mole-dotted throat. Billy swallowed.

“G’night, Billy. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, night.” He offered a wave, watched on to make sure Steve made it safely to the elevator, and shut the door.

And then promptly collapsed onto the floor in a heap, and didn't move for about ten minutes. Jesus _christ_ , Steve was going to be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can come bother me at [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where i am a complete dumbass all the time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! Whoohoo! Chapter 8, though? Who the hell knows. It's kicking my ass. Chapters 9 and 10? Great, love 'em, they're ready to see the light. But 8 is a little bitch. So. 
> 
> ANYWAY. I made a soundtrack for this fic? [Over here](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/613856514734686208/lamp-bright-rind-soundtrack) on tumblr where I am a dramatic idiot 90% of the time. And I AM gonna post the cupcake recipe from this chapter [on tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/tagged/lamp-bright-rind) also, if anyone wants it. I just didn't plan ahead and dig my recipe card out when I decided this entire chapter needed rewritten last night!
> 
> Anywho. Onward!

He’d made a strategic error. 

Taking the day off was all well and good, actually. The restaurant was nearly up and running, they had a complete--if slightly lengthy--menu, a manager all but hired, and Heather had already had half a drink menu written up when she’d hired herself on as head bartender.

And, most importantly, he hadn’t made a colossal fool of himself the night before. He hadn’t made Steve cry the way he’d made Lucas cry when trying to teach him how to bake cookies. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t been rude. He’d been _charming_ , probably. He goddamn _deserved_ a day off. He’d _earned_ it.

And he also deserved a shopping trip, because his fridge was distressingly lacking in essentials. 

That wasn’t the problem, though.

The problem lied, solely, on his plan of attack. It had been flawed from the start, if he was honest. 

First, he’d gone in hungry. He knew better than that, nothing good ever came from grocery shopping while hungry. He’d skipped breakfast and hadn’t thought to make himself lunch before he’d set off for the market. 

Second, he started on the entirely wrong end of the store. He went for the bakery section first. Big mistake. Never go for baked goods first, it only led to heartache.

It meant he spent his shopping trip grumpy, hungry and absolutely _craving_ some goddamn, no good, mother fucking _cupcakes_. 

His third mistake came shortly thereafter. He started thinking about what kind of cupcake he wanted, what sounded good. Gooey chocolate or butterscotch. Vanilla bean and blueberry, maybe. And _then_ a stray thought wandered through his mind. Simple and easy. 

He started to wonder what kind of cupcakes Steve might like, and suddenly it was all he could think of.

Billy spent twenty minutes just pacing the baking aisle, trying to figure out what kind of cupcakes he might want. He got another big bag of flour, because he’d used the last of what he’d had making trofie a few days before. He got a bag of sugar, and another bag of brown sugar. Got baking soda and baking powder. Grabbed a few bars of bittersweet chocolate. Then a few bars of white chocolate. _Then_ a few bars of milk chocolate. A jug of canola oil. Then a small bottle of walnut oil. And a bottle of sesame oil, because he was nearly out. And then he saw a jar of rendered duck fat, and into the cart that went, as well. 

None of it was helpful, so he wandered back toward the deli to get bacon. And then a half pound of pastrami. And another half pound of corned beef. And then back to the bakery aisle for rye flour, because _obviously_ he was going to make his own marble rye. Which meant he needed a jar of molasses, too. But a reuben wasn’t a cupcake, and a reuben wouldn’t _be_ a cupcake any time soon, if he had any say in the matter.

Then he went and dropped a jar of every spice known to man into the cart, simply because he didn’t know what he’d need until he needed it, and it was usually helpful to have it already on hand. And then a second jar of cinnamon. He always ran out of cinnamon first.

Next was the matter of butter, milk, cream, buttermilk, sour cream, a tub of edible cookie dough, cream cheese, a carton of eggs, a bag of shredded cheese, and a few more sticks of butter to stick in the freezer.

And when that yielded no good ideas for what he wanted to bake, he heaved a great sigh and moved onto produce. He was always running out of garlic and onions, could always do with a carton of mushrooms. The berries smelled bright and sweet when he passed them, and the apricots were lovely and ripe. There were strawberries and fresh, juicy pears. Every kind of apple he could want, a carton of guavas. And not a bit of it stirred anything in him. Nothing really _screamed_ Steve at him.

He was ready to give up and buy a carton of store bought cupcakes when he saw them.

And they were fucking _perfect_.

By the time Steve knocked at his door, the spice cabinet was organized, his pantry was well on the way to being fully stocked, Heart was playing softy from his phone, and the entire place smelled like chocolate cake. 

Steve looked nervous, but he was smiling, hair tousled and wild. He had another ratty t-shirt on, something he could stain if it came to that. And most importantly--and most unfortunately for Billy’s emotional state--he was wearing _glasses_. "Hey, Billy."

He was wearing glasses. Billy’d never seen him wear glasses before. He didn’t _wear_ glasses when he tried to cook. He didn’t wear glasses when he paced his kitchen, wailing into his phone. He didn’t wear glasses. But, if Billy had any say, he needed to wear them more often.

He tried to come up with something suave and charming to say. Something cool. Something that might make Steve laugh or, heaven forbid, _blush_. 

“Hey, foureyes.”

And that. _That_ wasn't it.

But Steve snorted and laughed. He shook his head at Billy in a fond sort of way. "Yeah, you try spending 8 hours in a cramped, stuffy boardroom, reading contracts in 9-point Times, and tell me how your eyes feel, dickhead."

"I meant no offense!" he declared, hands raised in surrender. "It's a good look!"

"I _know_ they're dorky, you don't have to sugarcoat it," Steve chuckled, rolling his eyes at Billy. He shooed Billy out of the doorway and pushed inside. "You got a fire extinguisher ready for when I fuck up?"

It was Billy's turn to roll his eyes. "You aren't gonna fuck up. I'll be right there the whole time."

“But far enough back that you don’t get your eyebrows burnt off,” Steve said with a nod and then marched himself right off into the kitchen.

Billy followed along, helpless. 

He’d already started the water heating again, just to give Steve one less then to worry about--and it certainly seemed that he needed it. He was already flipping through his little, ratty notebook by the time Billy made it into the room, shoulders tense. “I already salted the water and the noodles are in,” he said, quickly. “Now it’s chopping.”

“Right. I’ll be right here, you can still ask questions,” Billy reminded him, gently, as he settled into his spot at the island. “So _calm down_ , okay? Nothing is gonna go wrong.”

“I _am_ calm,” Steve grumbled, petulantly. But he took a deep breath and at least _tried_ to relax as he reached for the knife Billy had helpfully left for him. “But you’ll stop me if I start to fuck up?”

“Yeah, promise.” And he meant it, he really did. As much fun as he had watching through their windows as Steve stumbled his way through dinners, he was close enough, now, that he could actually do something about it. He just, sincerely, didn’t expect it to happen so soon. "Oh, no, nope, no no _no,_ " Billy said, quickly coming up behind Steve. "Steve, princess, I don't trust you not to slice your fingers off," he said, carefully taking the knife from his hand.

"I _asked_ yesterday if there was a proper way," he muttered sullenly. 

"You did, and I'd hoped you watched carefully, but I also forgot to actually say it, so it's on me, too," Billy said, giving Steve's shoulder a consoling pat. "Okay, first, you were holding too far back on the handle. You want to place your thumb and forefinger at the back of the blade, and hold the handle with the rest of your fingers," he said, slowly folding his hand around the grip. "It'll give you more control. So you're gonna hold the knife secure with your thumb and pointer, and guide the actual cutting motion with the rest of your hand."

Steve gave him a dry look. "I take it you have _more_ problems with my technique?"

"A bit yeah," Billy said, laughing to himself. "It's fine though. I mean, it sounds like no one ever really showed you before now, though.”

He heaved a sigh and then nodded. "Alright, Emeril, show me how it's done."

"Lagasse would be lucky to be half as pretty as me," Billy grumbled, biting down a smile.

"Yeah, but I bet he would be nicer to me."

Billy gave him an affronted look, "I'm nice!"

"You called me _foureyes._ "

"Yeah, affectionately!"

Steve's cheeks coloured a little and he flapped a hand, impatiently. "Go on, then, Bobby Flay, we don't have all night."

He made another face, but Steve just shooed him on again. 

" _Fine_ , Gloria Allred," he snarked, just to hear Steve's squawk of outrage. "When you're holding whatever you're cutting, curl your hand into a claw like this," he said, still moving slowly as he described the movement for Steve. He chopped a few bits of garlic, "Keep the tips of your fingers curled under, and don't pick the knife up quite so high. This way your fingertips are protected, no matter how fast or slow you're chopping. See? And you can kinda get a feel for when to move, when your knuckles brush the blade." He flipped the knife in the air, because he was a showy bastard, and offered the handle to Steve. "Got it?"

He gave Billy a skeptical look, but accepted the knife back. "Don't garlic crushers, like, _exist_?"

"We do not speak of those in this house."

Steve gave him an expectant look, clearly waiting for an explanation. "Okay?"

" _Because_ , they're inefficient, hard to clean and also because I just don't like them," Billy listed off, then motioned for him to get on with it. "Chop chop."

Steve rolled his eyes, hard. "Oh, ha fucking _ha_." He was biting his lip, though, to keep from really laughing. He carefully mimicked Billy's hold, then slowly began to move the knife. Then began to move a little faster, "Huh."

Billy chuckled, watching him go. "See? Safer."

"Yeah, yeah, you cocky _fuck_."

The rest of the meal prep went without any real incident. He didn't slice a finger off, didn't burn his garlic. He kept one eye on the tomatoes, and the other on the pasta timer. There was no fire, not even a whiff of smoke. 

Not that it was obvious from Steve’s posture, of course. He was tense and fidgety, just _waiting_ for something to go wrong. Nothing _did_ , of course. Billy wouldn’t have let anything bad happen, but it didn’t seem to entirely ease Steve’s anxiety. A few too many mishaps of his own for him to let his guard down, maybe. 

"You're real quiet and it's stressing me out," Steve said, hands on his hips and foot tapping rapidly on the floor. "Like, _really_."

"Because you haven't been doing anything _wrong_ ," he said, simply. "I'll speak up when I see something I can fix, but otherwise you're following directions. You’re doing _a good job_ , Steve."

Pretty Boy sagged and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"Now, turn around and make sure your noodles aren't clumping."

And at that, Pretty Boy jumped and spun back to the stove as the timer dinged at him. Off went the burner, aside went a measuring cup of starchy water. Pot in hand, Steve made his way toward the sink, plump lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated. He didn't test the pasta, which Billy almost commented on, but let him have it. He got the feeling Steve might very well startle and spill boiling water all over himself if Billy _did_ say anything.

But he didn’t. He drained the pasta, didn’t spill a damn thing as he dumped it into the waiting sauce. He didn’t burn anything as he stirred it all together and diligently watched it thicken and cling to the pasta. He didn’t drop any speck of spaghetti onto the floor as he plated it up. He did _nothing_ wrong, and Billy had to wonder how he’d ever convinced himself he was bad at _anything_.

He turned away from the stove, plate clutched in his hands.

Steve hesitated, and was endearing and sweet and Billy ruined it with a joke before he could stop himself. "It's not gonna _bite_." He got a glare for his trouble, and a plate shoved into his chest that he had to scramble to get a hold of before it could drop to the floor. “ _Brat_.”

And Steve? Steve just scrunched his nose and stuck his tongue out at him.

Billy’s eye-roll shouldn’t have been as fond as it was, but it was a little late for that. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then turned his attention to the pasta in his hands. It looked like it should, just the way Billy made it the night before. Smelled right. Steve followed the directions he scribbled down to a _T_ , Billy didn't really have to correct him at all. He twirled a fork in the warm pasta, and held it up to Steve, "C'mon, Pretty Boy. Suck it up, take a bite."

"But--"

" _Steve._ Eat the fucking pasta."

He narrowed his pretty eyes and crossed his arms across his chest. " _No._ "

"I'm not above airplaning this goddamn spaghetti at you."

"What if it sucks?" he asked, sullenly.

"It will _not_! You did everything right, nothing burned, it looks good," Billy argued, and then shoved the fork into his own mouth before Steve could make up his damn mind.

It was under salted, if anything, and the noodles far too soft for Billy's taste. But the garlic wasn't burned to a bitter mess like he'd feared. The sauce was otherwise well seasoned, if a little looser than Billy would have wanted. But it was _good_. 

"Steve, congratulations. You made spaghetti."

Pretty Boy blinked at him, clearly surprised. "What, really?"

"Really." Billy offered the fork to him again, a little more gently than he had before. "Go on, I'm not lying to you."

He gave Billy a final, dubious look and then accepted the plate and fork again. A small minute twitch of a frown, a tiny huff of a breath, and then he _finally_ ate the fucking pasta. His eyes were screwed shut, and he chewed with quick, determined bites. And then he _didn’t_. 

His face went soft with surprise. Steve looked at the plate, then at Billy with those great big whiskey eyes, and then at the plate again. And then he gently set the plate on the counter. And then… _well._ Steve--lovely, pretty, sweetheart Steve--was all limbs. No coordination, _no rhythm_ , and all over the place with his flailing, celebratory dance. Like a goddamn _muppet_ , off-beat and joyful. And Billy just wanted to _kiss him_.

Instead, he wandered into the dining room to retrieve the treat he'd prepared beforehand. A reward for a job well-done, or a consolation if he'd managed to set something on fire, the way he was so convinced he'd do.

Steve froze and blinked at the plate, long arms still raised above his head. "Cupcake?"

"You just made dinner, for the first time in your short life, and you did it all by yourself," Billy said, nudging the plate again. "You deserve a cupcake."

Steve gave him a _smug_ look and greedily dragged the treat closer. "You made me cupcakes."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I _didn't_ ," he insisted, but his smile might've given him away.

"And _you_ said you wouldn't be nice," Steve said, pleased as a fat cat in a sunbeam. "You only made fun of me, like, _twice_ and now I get the best cupcake I've probably ever had? If my math teachers had been this nice, I might've done a lot better."

Billy rolled his eyes and started gathering up dirty dishes. "Stop being cute."

Steve--because Billy couldn't possibly stop surrounding himself with dumbasses--responded by shoveling half the cupcake into his fucking mouth. There was a daub of peachy-couloured frosting on the tip of his _nose_. Billy wanted to lick it off.

He made a face, instead, "You're disgusting."

Steve just gave him a chocolate-stained smile. 

Billy felt _warm_ , all of a sudden. Comfy, even. _Content_. Pretty Boy was sitting in his kitchen again, looking soft and happy in the low light. Everything smelled like garlic and basil and chocolate. Steve was grinning at him, comfortable enough in Billy's space to crack jokes and laugh and tease and argue. It was… Well, it was _perfect_. It was everything Billy had been hoping for. It was _everything_.

And then he made a _sound_ , and it sent a spike of heat right to Billy's cock. 

"Oh my _god_ , Billy," Steve groaned, eyes fluttering. "This is _so good_! Is that _orange_? Did you make me chocolate orange cupcakes?!"

Billy swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Um, yeah. Dark chocolate and blood orange cupcakes with a, uh, white chocolate and blood orange buttercream."

Another hum of delight. "What's that _drizzle_ , it's so _nice_!"

"A, uh, Tuaca caramel."

"Holy _shit_."

Silently, and secretly hoping Steve would make _that fucking sound_ again, Billy walked to grab the tray of cupcakes from the dining table. "Here, help yourself," he said, and quickly turned to start the dishes.

"You're gonna spoil me, Billy Hargrove."

"I am _not_." He was.

"Uh huh, sure. Just keep telling yourself that." There was the distinctive sound of cupcake wrapper tearing, another, softer, sound of pleasure. "God _damn_ it."

Billy was forever thankful he was facing the sink.

Eventually, though, Steve stepped up to his side and wordlessly started drying dishes. 

"Gonna surprise your girlfriend with a nice dinner now?" Billy asked, before he could stop himself. Curiosity, and all that.

Steve just scoffed. "Too busy for dating. And my last ex, David, just dated me so he could get in with my dad. It worked, too. Think he's gonna get sent to jail for this lawsuit thing, though." Steve sounded _pleased_ , and Billy turned to see a wicked little smirk across those soft lips. "Oh, _dear_."

"Never took you for a cruel man, Steven," Billy teased. "I like it."

Steve shrugged again and gave Billy an innocent look, hand pressed to his chest. "He didn't listen to my advice."

Goddamn it, he was cute. He was a little shit, too. Little bit of a brat, definitely over-dramatic. He liked orange chocolate cupcakes and criminally overcooked pasta. He was mule-stubborn and determined as hell. He had a wide, easy smile and big eyes that Billy swore _sparkled_. It just wasn't _fair_.

"So, what would you like to learn next?" Billy asked, and leaned back against the sink as he watched Steve dry the last few dishes. "Just wanna do the classics?"

Steve shrugged. "Sure. I mean, honestly, I didn't expect to actually be able to _do_ anything. So I'll just… Follow your lead, I guess."

"What _do you_ know how to cook?" Billy asked, and crossed his arms over his chest so he didn't reach out to gently wipe the smudge of chocolate from the corner of Steve's mouth.

"Um, like… scrambled eggs, kinda. I can cook a potato in the microwave?" Steve's face scrunched up in thought, all cute, and it was almost enough to keep Billy from groaning in horror. "Does instant ramen count?"

"I think you know the answer to that," Billy said, helplessly dropping his chin to his chest. He had the distinctly terrible feeling that the spaghetti was probably just a fluke. Weakly, he asked, "Pancakes?"

"If you like charcoal," Steve confirmed with a nod and a grin so pleased and wide that Billy could've gotten lost in it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, this chapter has been kicking my ass for forever but i FINALLY kicked it's ass instead. SO! have a short little introspecty chapter 
> 
> If you're interested, [here](https://www.pagepottery.com/index.php?l=product_detail&p=350) is the dinner set I based the one in this chapter off of, just in reverse colours.
> 
> As always, I have a [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where I am a dumbass a lot of the time.

Billy Hargrove had made a name for himself, and it wasn't a _good_ one. 

It made him money, paid his bills, got him _fans_ , of course, but it came at a cost.

He and Robin, both, had come up quickly. Both made reputations, both worked for some of the best chefs, in the best restaurants, in the best cities, in all the world. Where they differed--skills aside--was that Robin was, deep down, fundamentally, a _good fucking person_.

Billy? Billy was a piece of shit with a big imagination and good knife skills. There were thousands more like him, and the _only_ reason he got as far as he had was because people liked watching others get torn down. He got book deals because his Twitter and Instagram had enough followers to populate a small nation. He guested on cooking shows because he had more YouTube subscribers than god. He got Netflix deals because he knew how to look into a camera like he wanted to fuck it.

What Robin earned on merit and skill, Billy stole.

He didn't deserve what he had. He _knew that_. 

Robin? If the restaurant fell through, she could get hired on by _any_ pastry chef in the world. She'd be welcomed back into the fray with open arms.

Billy had burned enough bridges in his short career that he wouldn't get hired on at an I-65 truck stop grease trap as anything more than a dishwasher. If the food industry had a blacklist, Billy was _it_. And most days, he could live with that. He could get up, go to the bones of their restaurant, and try to make it come to life--and be _proud_ of that fact. Most days he felt that, even if he hadn't earned it, he was at least skilled enough to back it up. 

_Most days_ didn't happen after three spent touring every potter's gallery and workshop and showroom within a few hours drive of his apartment. _Most days_ didn't come after looking at every fucking shape and colour and finish and weight and _size and material and_ \--

Billy cut his own thoughts off with a sigh and wandered away from Robin. She was looking at a glossy set of plates, small and square and vibrant. Shades of dappled red and gold and olive, glaze thick and shiny. 

Billy hated them. Robin did, too, if her tone to the potter was anything to go by, but Billy didn't feel like sticking around to find out. She could take care of himself, and he knew he was more than a little likely to punch the man's nose in if he suggested another ugly fucking dinnerset to him.

For all that he knew he didn't deserve a damn thing, he _had a fucking restaurant_. He had a _name_ , that meant something--even if all it meant was _fuck all_ , it meant _something._ He had a career, built out of bullshit as it was. He had a legacy, cobbled together from a desire to tear down anyone who stood in his way. 

He had a restaurant. 

And that didn't mean _shit_ if they had nothing to serve on.

Couldn't very well serve a taco on thin fucking _air_.

They’d agreed that they wanted earthenware, but would settle for stoneware if they found something they liked. Something rustic, but modern--and hadn’t they _laughed_ when they added that stipulation to the list. Square, preferably. They weren’t into porcelain, and they _definitely_ didn’t want glass--vitrified or otherwise. Plastic was _out of the question_ , as was melamine. Wood was just… _too_ rustic. Too much effort to take care of. 

They’d stopped at the high-end showrooms first, simply because Robin assured him that their investor didn’t give two shits about price. It had been hell. All porcelain this, and china _that._ A bunch of overpriced shit, hocked by a bunch of snobby men who ignored Robin’s existence in favour of looking down their noses at Billy. It hadn’t been worth the hours of physical strain of _not_ punching every damn one of them in their pinched fucking faces.

One day was too much.

Day two left him depressed.

Day three was about to get its goddamn ass kicked. 

He’d been despondent when he woke, but one haughty _And, what is your_ budget _, sir?_ and he’d grown _angry_. Some of it was at the goddamn ceramic pieces of shit they were surrounded by, but most of it was at himself. 

Because, even if they found something, he _didn’t fucking deserve it._

But he had to fucking _find_ something, first.

And, surprisingly, he _did_. 

They were a dappled cream colour, shifting into shades of toast and almond and almost peach, dotted with tiny, random bursts of chocolate. The matte finish was silken and smooth beneath his fingertip. It didn’t have the weight of earthenware that he’d been convinced he wanted, but he found the longer he studied them, the less he really minded.

The plates were square, the way they wanted. The raised rims were uneven and wonky, each one different from the last. But they sat stable and solid on the table top, and didn’t wobble when stacked. The bowls were tall, three gentle notches along each rim. Despite their look--dissimilar and crooked--they fit within each other neatly.

His favourite part, what had first caught his eye, was the thick, lazily twisting trails of blue across each piece. A winding river of colour across a corner of a plate, twisting down the side of a bowl. The shifting blue of rain heavy clouds and stormy seas, turning navy where it brushed up against the sandy cream. The colours of briney wind in his hair and soft sand beneath his feet and an ocean licking at his ankles.

Not what he’d gone looking for, not what he’d expected to find. But when he thought of full tables and laughter and the scent of sizzling meat and fresh, toasted bread, he could see them. Imagine them littering hightops, stacking up on the edge of a booth as people ordered another few plates for the table. 

A bit of the anxiety in his chest settled, the longer he thought about it. 

“Hey, Buckles, c'mere.” He waved Robin over, held a plate out toward her. “I think I found ‘em.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! 
> 
> Also, the pancake and french toast recipes are up over on my [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/614797967501721600/lamp-bright-rind-chapter-9) if you're interested. as always, you can hang with me there where I am a chaotic dumbass at all times.
> 
> Also, the coffee listed in this are real flavours from Bones Coffee. You know, the one from instagram ads? That one. 
> 
> And the song playing at the end is Summertime by Orville Peck which is, as the kids say, The Slap.

Steve stepped into Billy's apartment again at 7:03 on Saturday morning.

It had been Steve's idea, really. He was busy on Saturday nights, he'd said, and was adamant that breakfast should be cooked at _breakfast time_. With the Bi-Weekly Sibling Brunch and Cocktail Hour approaching the next day, Saturday morning it was.

And it was a _mistake_.

 _Steve_ \--the beautiful, bashful, _tease_ that was Steve--decided to show up in his pajamas. Because that was a completely normal thing to do; show up to a near-stranger's apartment in ratty, baggy sweats and a worn-thin t-shirt with a neck so stretched it hung fully off of one shoulder. And _slippers_. He wore his goddamn _house slippers_. A pair of worn-ratty knit and faux fur scuffs that had seen better days.

His hair was wild and fluffy and Billy just wanted to push his hands into it.

It was a real problem.

"I went and got milk and eggs and then I know you said you had bread, but I went and got a loaf of brioche from that new bakery a couple blocks over," Steve announced around a yawn, leading the way toward the kitchen, and Billy had visions of him walking into the local market in his pajamas like that. Half-asleep and stumbling, the fact that Billy had told him _not_ to bother buying anything completely forgotten. "Did I forget anything?"

"Nope, I got plenty of flour to get us through," Billy assured him, very definitely _not_ watching Steve's ass beneath his loose sweats. But, had he been, he would concede that it was a _very_ nice ass. But he definitely wasn't doing that. No siree, Bob, he was not. "Coffee?"

" _Please_ ," Steve breathed, sagging against the island, eyes slipping closed. There was still a pillow crease on his cheek, though faint and fading, and his glasses kept slipping down his nose. Still looked sleep-soft and warm, brown eyes bleary behind smudged lenses. "It's so early, Billy. Why is it so early? Who even invented 7 a.m.? They should be arrested. I'll prosecute, don't think I won't."

"Don't you usually have to get up earlier than this?" Billy asked, pouring a cup. 

"Yeah, but not on a _Saturday_."

He snorted and shook his head, fondly. "Uh huh, you _do_ remember that this was your idea, right?"

"Yeah, okay, but have you considered: fuck you."

"I don't have to give you coffee, you know. I can drink this myself," Billy said, reaching down to flick his ear, and got a petulant _whine_ for his trouble. He rolled his eyes and asked, "How do you take it?"

"Cream and sugar, if you please."

"I'm lookin' for a ratio here, Pretty Boy," Billy teased and then _froze_ in panic, but Steve just snorted, his pretty face scrunched up and amused.

"Splash of cream, two lumps, please," Steve said, and pushed himself up. He shook his head at Billy, but he was amused, at least. " _Pretty Boy_ , c'mon man."

"Just call 'em like I see 'em," he said, easily, like he wasn't about to die of embarrassment. He turned and gave Steve a wolfish grin and an exaggerated--but not by _much_ \--leer. 

Steve scrunched his nose, clearly struggling to fight down a smile. "Don't give me that face, it's too early for that face."

"I'll just wait for you to wake up, then," Billy laughed and turned away to finish preparing Steve's coffee. Two lumps, splash of cream, the sudden, dawning realization that he had used Fruity Pebble flavoured coffee in the pot that morning. 

Ignorant to his inner turmoil, Steve greedily tugged the mug to his chest. He breathed the scent in deep before he drained half the cup. And then he frowned and looked at the cup, and then up at Billy. "Electric Unicorn?"

And it was Billy's turn to blink at him. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"My friend got me a sampler pack for my birthday and I kinda loved it," he said, shrugging. He offered Billy a toothy grin. "Paradise Pie is my favourite, or, like, Highland Grog."

Of course Steve unabashedly liked flavoured coffee. Of course he knew the flavour _by name_. Of course he liked _key lime pie flavoured coffee_ best. Because nothing could _ever_ just be easy for Billy to wrap his head around.

"My sister keeps buying it for me," he lied, and made a mental note to finally add those other flavours to his next order. "You drink a lot of coffee?"

"I _live_ on coffee," Steve said, toasting Billy with his mug. "But I _would_ like to learn how-to pancakes, also."

"Oh, eager this time?" Billy teased.

"Fucking _hungry_ this time." He gave Billy another of those winning smiles. He dug his phone out of his pocket, turned on some music--something soft and low--and then dug his notebook out of his shopping bag. "M'ready."

"Okay, pancakes are simple, so I'm gonna tell you the recipe for you to write down, and then I'll supervise while you do it," Billy said, knocking his knuckles on the countertop so he didn't reach out and brush his fingers through Steve's hair. "Sound good?"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay."

"Good, you'll do fine. Pancakes are easy," Billy assured him with a pat to the shoulder. "Okay, first beat together one egg and one cup milk in--"

"Wait, why not buttermilk?" Steve asked, pausing in his writing. "Aren't pancakes s'posed to be made with buttermilk?"

"You can, but how often are _you_ really going to _use_ buttermilk?" Billy asked, and shrugged. "You're more likely to have regular milk on hand, right?"

Steve thought about it a moment, and then nodded. And then he frowned at Billy, eyes narrowed and almost _betrayed_ , "Why did I go to the store if all I'm using is, like only _a cup of milk_?"

"I have no idea, I literally told you I had everything," Billy laughed, raising his hands.

Steve narrowed his eyes even further and waved Billy on with a wordless grumble. 

He didn't have a _good_ view of Steve's notes as he scribbled down Billy's instructions, but they looked _illegible_. Like chicken scratch and squiggles, instead of letters and numbers. But, hey, it had worked for spaghetti, so who was he to judge? As long as _Steve_ understood it, it didn't much matter what Billy thought. "Got it all?"

"I think so?"

"Okay, what questions have you got?"

"None, which is the problem." He had that same worried look he'd worn Tuesday night, all scrunched brow and lower lip between his teeth.

Billy sighed and reached out to hold Steve by his shoulders. "You're going to do just _fine_. Do you know why?"

He shook his head, lip caught in his teeth again. Billy was starting to _hate_ that look on Steve’s face, didn’t like seeing him so _unsure_ like that. It looked _wrong_ on him.

"Because I'll be right here the whole time," Billy said, and _relished_ in the feeling of Steve relaxing beneath his hands. "I'm here to _teach you_ , right? That doesn't mean I'm gonna just let you fail. Did I let you do that last time?"

A small huff of a laugh. "No."

"That's right. If I see you do something wrong, I'm gonna stop you and help you do it _right_. Right?"

A wider smile, a noticeable ease to his posture. "Right."

"So take a deep breath and _trust me_."

A short nod, a deep breath. Then another. A more confident nod, "Okay. Time for pancakes."

Billy gently chucked his shoulder and released him. "Atta boy."

Steve chuckled a little and turned to the ingredients littered across the counter. He muttered something to himself that Billy missed, even as close as he was. It sounded suspiciously like _You can do this_ , but he couldn't tell for certain. He didn't _need to_ , of course, but all the same it still made Billy's chest ache just a touch. Billy wanted to bundle him up and hold him close, he was so sweet. He needed to be protected, and fucking _encouraged_ , jesus. 

Life had done a number on Pretty Boy, left him uncertain and insecure in a way that Billy didn't think he could do much to fix. But he _could_ teach him how to make pancakes, and that wasn't nothing.

So he watched Steve carefully--always, _always_ carefully--measure out ingredients and follow his notes to a _T._ He whisked together the egg and milk, stirred his dry mix together, melted butter. He read over the instructions three whole times before he started stirring it all together. 

Billy knew he was nervous, but he didn't know _why_. Didn't know what he'd have to say to calm his nerves. 

The thing was, Steve _would_ get it. He'd panic softly to himself, do everything right, and would suddenly know how to cook pancakes, and _still_ not believe his own work. That's how it went with spaghetti, that's how it would go with whatever Steve wanted to learn next. Steve had survived _law school_ , for fuck's sake! He shouldn't have been afraid of pancakes.

Nothing Billy had said yet had _eased_ any of that anxiety. He'd just have to keep trying, of course--not that it was a _hardship_.

"Ah, okay, don't flip yet," Billy said, hand on Steve's wrist to stop him. "You've got some bubbles, but not a lot, and it's still very liquidy on top."

Steve nodded, "And that's bad?"

"Just means it's not ready to flip, yet." He shrugged and instructed, "Wait until there’s bubbling evenly across the whole thing and it’s not so shiny and liquid looking."

Steve nodded, and continued to frown down at the pan, watching it like a hawk. He kept the spatula at the ready, occasionally darting short glances over to Billy to gauge his reaction. When he deemed it ready and he flipped the cake, it came up scorched black.

"Okay, so we know that you have the pan a little hot," Billy said, gently. "Go on and lower the heat a notch, and the next one will come out perfect."

Steve gave him a mournful look, but did as he was told. Billy _swore_ he saw a glisten of tears behind his smudged glasses. "I thought you said I wouldn't fail."

"You didn't."

"But it's _burnt_!"

"Oh, please, the only time a pancake is _truly_ ruined is when it's smoking. This first one is always wrong somehow, but it's not _on fire_ ," Billy said and tried to make sure his smile was gentle and encouraging, rather than amused. "It'll still taste good, I promise."

Steve didn’t look like he believed him _at all_ , but he dutifully dropped another scoopful into the pan.

The second wasn't black. It was golden brown and picture perfect, and Steve made a sharp little chirp of surprise. He flashed Billy a wide, excited grin and was off. Slowly but surely, the stack of pancakes grew, each one better than the last. 

Steve's excitement was infectious, had Billy grinning along with him. “You’re doing good, Pretty Boy. Just like _I told you you would_.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were dusted pink. “Yeah, yeah.”

“No, not _yeah, yeah_ , Steve. You’re doing _good_ , okay?” Billy nudged his shoulder, gently. “I wouldn’t lie to you, so take the fucking praise, you little shit.”

And, Steve threw his head back and laughed. Bright and loud. His shoulders shook with it.

Once he settled, Billy gently nudged him again. “Keep going, I’m gonna grab a container for you to take leftovers for breakfast. Alright?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I think I got it.”

“No _think_ about it. You _do_ got it,” Billy said, sternly, and left him to it. 

His pantry was his actual favourite part of the apartment, and about half the reason he'd chosen it. It was just off the kitchen and the size of his empty walk-in closet. It was big enough he could even fit another small work table in the middle. 

He was the one room he'd actually filled. Sturdy, built in shelves were lined with canned goods and vegetables. A few experiments in fermenting jars and such. He had a row of small, neatly labeled bottles that he wanted to surprise Heather with--homemade bitters for her to play around with. The lower shelves were crowded with some of the appliances he didn't want taking up space on his countertops, dehydrators and such. The shelves of the back wall were stacked with neat rows of Tupperware and Pyrex containers. 

Max would roll her eyes if she ever saw it. He couldn't unpack his belongings for shit, but he sure could organize his pantry.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, his breath caught. 

He often took for granted that his kitchen window faced East. It meant he had little natural lighting when he _needed_ it, when he was actually there to use it in the later parts of the day. His apartment was mostly spacious and open--except the kitchen. It was closed off almost completely. It meant the light that filtered in through the South-facing balcony door, and the wall of windows lining the dining room, didn't reach the confines of his kitchen. It meant the lighting sucked, almost entirely. The dimmer didn't do anything for him but to help him watch the apartment across the way.

The lighting _sucked._

But, he supposed, there always had to be an exception.

Steve was lit up in _gold_. 

Soft morning sunlight streamed in, lighting his profile up in pale oranges and yellows. Caught glinting on the shiny rims of his glasses and the long fan of his eyelashes. Lit upon the slow, gentle curve of his smile, like sweet honey. Made his chestnut hair catch fire, wild and bright and blinding.

Made him glow rose gold in the otherwise dark room.

He looked _ethereal_ , almost, in a way Billy hadn't been able to see up close. He was stood at the stove, making nothing but simple _pancakes,_ humming along to some soft country song crooning _always catch the call and whistle while we're walking_ at him from Steve’s phone. He was in ratty pajamas and stifling yawns. He was the most beautiful man Billy had ever seen.

In a few minutes, Steve would be finished with the pancakes and Billy would step up to his side again. Teach him how to make a _proper_ french toast. He'd show him the right thickness to cut the brioche Steve had brought, and wouldn't even mention the challah he'd made just the day before, just for Steve.

And after, they'd wash up, clean the space as if no one but Billy had been there at all. He would leave with a laugh and a _thanks_ and a _see you soon_ and a big, empty Steve-shaped space left behind.

Billy would be alone again, apartment bare and dark.

So for a moment, he stood and watched. Memorized every bit he could--every line of Steve's face, the curve of his spine and slope of his shoulders and every dotted mole on his fair skin--to keep with him. To keep him warm once the light had gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've been chugging along with updates, but I have no idea when the next will be! Got a little blindsided with family things, so I won't have as much time to work as usual. 
> 
> Um, come bother me on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) if you don't mind my dumbassery. Anons are on, and i'll answer anything and i'm soft, weak and willing to give lbr spoilers

Nancy Byers née Wheeler was… something.

Small and delicate looking with wide blue eyes that seemed to see _everything_. Dark curls just barely brushing the tops of her thin shoulders. She was dwarfed in an ugly, warm knit sweater, and artfully distressed skinny jeans, equal parts frumpy and fashionable.

It wasn't that he _didn't_ like her--she was _fine_ , if a little uptight. She didn't like Billy's hair down and loose as he led her on a tour of the kitchen, didn't like how many half-eaten dishes were laid out across the countertops, and _really_ didn't like how low Billy's shirt was open. But she treated him with respect. She didn't snark at him, didn't bitch about cleanliness. Just asked about the size of the place, seating, plans for expansion. She asked about suppliers, pointed out problematic companies and suggested new ones. She _was_ good. 

But she telegraphed her emotions across every inch of her tiny frame; from her lips pinched and twisted in an unhappy pout, to the tight line of her shoulders, raised high in clear discomfort. When she looked at his unbuttoned shirt, her brow would twitch and her mouth would form a minute little sneer, for a millisecond, before she would school her expression again. When she spied a dirty dish, she would toss her head slightly as she looked away, as if rolling her eyes.

When the salesman leered at her, she shuddered minutely, and then set her jaw in determination. When she feigned politeness, her head would tilt as she spoke, emphasizing each word. 

When she was _angry_ , her eyes would narrow in a dangerous sort of way. The line of her mouth would go tight, like she was sucking on her teeth, gearing up to let something out. Her fists, mostly hidden where her arms were crossed, went white knuckled and trembled.

She was having a _bad day_.

Billy understood. He’d been having a bad day since Wednesday. His nerves were still raw, still just on the edge of choosing flight over fight-- _again_. Whatever good Steve had done Saturday morning had been undone by the time noon hit, and Billy'd been left with his thoughts. 

Max would've helped. Max _usually_ helped, knew how. Always had, even when she didn't notice. Knew how to talk him down from bad decisions, and threaten him appropriately when just _talking_ didn't work. But Max had shown up to brunch with Lucas in tow and he'd simply held his tongue. He'd been charming, of course, even managed to get Lucas to relax enough to laugh at a joke or two.

But it meant it sat in the back of his mind and festered, and it wasn't getting better. But at least he could see it coming.

"Thanks for your help, I think we just wanna look around for a bit," Billy said, cutting in before she could well and truly let loose on the man. A few years of therapy meant he knew himself well enough to know when he should and shouldn't fight. His head was on straight enough to know better, but he hadn't known Nancy long enough to have a beat on her temper. He stepped between them and nudged her away, "We'll let you know if we have questions."

She made _that face_ at him--mouth thin and tight as she kept from _snarling_ \--and then stomped herself away.

"You alright?" he asked, quietly, and got another vicious glare for his trouble. " _Jeeze_ , sorry I asked." He threw his hands up and turned toward a particularly nice table. Walnut burl and a lovely twist of baby blue resin down the middle. It was beautiful. A bit _much_ , really, but beautiful.

"I don't need you white knighting like that," she snapped. "I can take care of myself."

"I am well aware of that. I'm also not in the mood to visit a hospital after you break your hand on a man's face and get us banned, possibly arrested. No matter how much he deserves it," he muttered, moving to the next table. Another elaborate plank of twisting, burled wood, more shiny resin. "This is all a bit much to you, too, right?"

"Of course it is. Simple would be better," she conceded, leading toward a back corner of the showroom. "And I wouldn't have broken my hand."

"But we’d still be kicked out.”

She grumbled something under her breath and then waved toward another table. “What about more like that?”

The table was long and elegant, easily a twelve-seater. A farmhouse table in spirit only. It was still the same sharp, clean edges of everything else he'd seen, still littered with delicate tendrils of bright resin. It was a table he’d have put in his own home, maybe, all dark wood and turquoise rivers. But it wasn’t what he was looking for. “Everything here is so… neat.”

“So you don’t want a great big, _stately_ sort of piece for the front,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. It wasn’t a dangerous look, more assessing than anything. “Robin said modern.”

“Not this… elaborate, I guess. Robin doesn't know what she's talking about.” He frowned down at the table, trying to think of what he _really_ wanted. What he saw when he closed his eyes and imagined the place full of people and laughter and _life_. “Something rougher. Little more lived in.”

She nodded, thoughtful and slow. “How much do you want everything to match?”

“In style more than colour,” he answered after another pause. “Not too dark. I like the trestle look, rather than the four legs, like this.”

"What about reclaimed wood?"

Billy thought about it, didn't hate it, and shrugged. "Wouldn't be opposed."

“So I’ve got a line on somebody,” she said, eyes still narrowed. It was a thoughtful look, this time. Like she was making plans. “I would have suggested him earlier, but I was under the impression you wanted something a little more like _this_.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly know what I _didn’t_ want until I saw it, I guess.”

She made a face, and then shrugged. “Fair. Let me give Jim a call. I’ll have him send some photos, see if you like his style."

"Yeah." He didn't care, really. He'd say yes just to be _done_ wandering through showrooms. "Yeah, that'd be great, actually. If he's not far, we can schedule a day for him to come up and look at the space?"

Nancy nodded again, eyes bright. "He'll be in town on Friday, actually."

"That's perfect," he said, relaxing. " _More than_. And that _also_ means we can leave."

Nancy didn't laugh--not out loud, anyway--and led the charge to the exit as fast as she could without appearing to run. "I'm gonna go catch up with Robin and Heather," Nancy said, tapping at her phone, as they broke into the cool March afternoon. “They’re still at the glass place down the street.”

"Oh, _no_. No, no, Byers, that's amateur hour _._ You _do not_ want to do that," Billy said, shaking his head vigorously. "Nope. Just… trust me."

She gave him a quizzical look, only mildly offended by the _amateur_ comment.

"They're in love. Like, distressingly, disgustingly, in love. And they're both so goddamn _oblivious_ about it," he said. "You will want to shoot them and then yourself within five minutes."

She snorted and then laughed, a delicate hand flying up to cover her mouth. She looked surprised by her own chuckles, “So Heather is _that_ brunette.”

“You have _no_ idea how much Heather is _that brunette_ ,” he grumbled, but gave her a smirk. “I won’t stop you if you _really_ want to join ‘em, but you’ll be stuck with them until they’re done.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. She beelined for the passenger door of his car, “No thank you.”

Small talk on the way back to the restaurant was easier than it had been when they’d set out that morning. Earlier, they’d been silent and awkward, sipping coffee and snacking on the pistachio and cranberry studded challah Billy had brought along for breakfast. 

The ride back was easier. Nancy had found her stride and Billy had always been good at adapting. 

She'd gone to high school with Robin, it turned out, though they hadn't known much of each other at the time. She'd married her high school sweetheart, and her voice caught on the words with a bit of a sour note that Billy didn't think was about Jon. He was a photographer, it turned out. Good one, too. She had a younger brother who was a shithead in a punk band, and a younger sister who was a teenage shithead and starting to take after her brother. 

She was easy to listen to, easy to get talking so Billy didn't have to contribute much more than curious prompts.

Nancy didn't ask about _the show_ , though he was certain she was familiar. She seemed like someone who would do research before taking a job, wouldn't just take Robin at her word. She didn't push him for details about his family, and he figured Robin had given her a talk about _that_ , too--and he wouldn't admit out loud that he was grateful for it. 

Nancy Byers wasn't half so serious as he'd assumed upon meeting, but somehow twice as serious. Cut herself off from telling wild stories about herself, only to _tut_ disapprovingly at wild stories that Billy told of Robin. 

He liked her. A little. Begrudgingly.

"Can I make you some dinner before you head off? Didn't really stop for lunch," he said, leading the way back into the restaurant so she could gather her coat. 

"Jon is cooking dinner as we speak, but I wouldn't say no to another piece of that bread," she said, wearing the same greedy, expectant look Robin sometimes did when he brought in breakfast. The same look Steve had worn as he waited impatiently for Billy to box up his cupcakes.

Billy rolled his eyes and shoved the last half of the loaf at her, "I'm surrounded by _greed_."

"And whose fault is that?" She was smirking at him, but he didn't mind it so much. "I'll see you on Friday. I'll bring Jim by about 10, if that works?"

"Yeah, yeah, that'll be great. I'll leave the alley door propped open, just come on in when you get here." 

She gave him a small wave, and then a pointed look toward the dirty dishes, and was gone in a swirl of powdery rose perfume. 

He didn't mind her half as much as Robin expected him to, but it was early, he supposed.

Dutifully, he cleaned up his mess. Got the feeling she'd know Friday morning, just by looking at him, whether or not he'd taken her hint. He didn't mind so much, though. He minded the silence, but it was nothing a little Tom Petty wouldn't fix. He minded being _alone_ , but he could plan out dinner instead of continually reminding himself he was a fraud, a failure, a placeholder for someone more deserving of what he'd built.

Not that thinking about cured meat distracted him fully from a lifetime of self-hatred and a decade of bridge burning, but it helped a little. 

By the time he was leaving, his roiling thoughts had calmed to a manageable hum, and his stomach was talking to him louder than he liked.

He'd been planning to head down the street. Just to the deli, just for some hot coppa from Gino. That's all he wanted. A trip to his favourite deli, visit the only old man he'd ever met who didn't remind him of his father. Get a nice treat for himself, maybe add some fresh ricotta and roasted peppers.

That was _all_ he wanted.

What he got was _blindsided_.

She was just down the street. She wasn't looking up at him, instead rifling through her purse as she searched for something. Her hair was still red, darker than Max's. Still wavy, still a little dated, but strikingly familiar. 

He hadn't seen her in years, hadn't wanted to. He knew Max spoke to her sometimes. She had tentatively told him they'd moved to some the fuck where in Indiana. That she'd gone to visit, once, when Neil had been out of town. She spoke about Susan like Billy was a bomb about to go off, and he'd made an effort to be anything but. To be kind and supportive, as best as he could be, anyway.

But it was _different_ when her existence was purely secondhand. When he only knew of her in passing mentions and tentative comments. It was _different_ , when he didn't have a _choice._

Because, if Susan was there, right in front of him like that, _he_ wouldn't be far behind. He'd never let her go far, never let her out of his sight. She was fifteen yards from him, walking _toward_ him, and for _once_ he decided not to wait for his past to catch him.

Billy turned, quickly, but not before she looked up and saw him. For the millisecond their eyes locked, he watched her face go slack in surprise, eyes wide. She could look all she wanted, they wouldn't touch him. Not again.

She called after him, voice weak, but he didn't once stop moving.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are! a new chapter of my steadily growing fic child.
> 
> As always, you can bother me on tumblr where I post links and recipes for the [food referenced in the fic](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/615333160587296768/lamp-bright-rind-chapter-11) and have a tab for all the extra bits and pieces of the lbr cinematic universe
> 
> <3

He should have cancelled.

Billy _knew_ he should have.

He'd been a holy terror since _the incident_. Enough of a dick that Max hadn't even yelled, she'd just hung up on him. Bad enough Heather had damn near _slapped him._ He could see the telltale twitch in her shoulder, like she wanted to pull her hand back and swing. He'd run his mouth--about she and Robin, what else--and she'd almost popped him across it.

He'd even snapped at Robin bad enough that she'd gone _quiet_. She'd hunched her shoulders a little and stopped looking at him and stopped _talking to him._ She'd _run._ She'd gone out to lunch that afternoon and just didn't come back. 

He'd done that. To the only people he cared about. Spat out bullshit he knew would make them hurt. In the moment, he'd _wanted_ them to. Wanted them to know even a _fraction_ of the fear and pain that was twisting round and around in his chest.

He'd done _that._

He had no business being around Steve. No business putting anyone else in the line of fire. Especially not someone like _Steve_ , someone that sweet. Someone who didn’t _know him_ , know what to expect of him.

But Steve was impossible to say no to.

And worse than all that, Billy was _addicted._ The idea of going _without_ , for even just one more day, was un-fucking-acceptable.

So he tried to be calm, to be kind and soft and everything he tended to push aside. Tried to give Steve the courtesy he'd already denied everyone else he cared for.

"Alright, now that you've got the skin trimmed, put everything into the baking dish next to the stove," Billy said, trying to keep his tone gentle, rather than _commanding_. He wasn't trying to be the teachers he learned from, he didn't want that--and he sure as _hell_ didn't want that for _Steve._ "Give it a good stir, make sure everything is coated in the oil and the 'nduja isn't on top, and then right into the oven."

"And that's… _it_." Steve blinked at him, surprised. "Like… seriously?" 

"Yup, told you it was easy."

"Huh." Steve blinked at the ingredients in front of him, and then shrugged and began tossing potatoes and cauliflower into the dish. "The chicken need to be skin-side up, probably?"

"Doesn't matter to start. You're gonna turn it all a couple times, and it will finish skin up," Billy said, and then headed off Steve's next question. "You'll just want to make sure the 'nduja isn't on top yet, otherwise it'll get burned."

Steve nodded, and set to work doing just that. With a spoon. Just a spoon. A small one. It was cute, really.

"Go ahead and use your hands. It'll be easier," Billy said, coming up beside him. He toyed with the idea of pushing up against Steve's back, reaching around him and guiding those hands himself. But Billy wasn't in the right headspace for _that_ . That big of a hint, that big of a declaration of intent. He'd eat Steve _alive_ , and not in a way that would make Billy feel _good_ about it. 

So he stepped up to Steve's side, instead. Close enough that their shoulders brushed, and he hoped it would be enough to calm the rage still simmering in his gut.

He liked watching Steve work, even when he was tentative and unsure. He kept casting worried glances over at Billy, but he still wasn't doing anything _wrong_ , but his movements were still sure and elegant. When he used a knife, his cuts were smooth and fluid, where Billy’s remained rough and brutal, even after all his years.

Billy forced his tone soft. "That's good. You're doing good, Steve."

He preened a little cheeks going a little pink. "Alright, if you're sure."

" _I am_."

Steve chuckled, ducking his head. He continued on until he was satisfied--or at least tired of not getting any hints from Billy--and poked the nuggets of ‘nduja back down into the cauliflower and potatoes. 

He tended to do everything carefully, as if whatever he held in his hands was just seconds away from breaking and shattering and splintering into nothing. He stirred vegetables like they were fragile, glass baubles. He washed his hands like a man about to perform surgery. He loaded the tray into the oven like it was a _bomb_ about to go off if he jostled it too much.

It was cute, in bits and pieces. When he got a rhythm going and his care was due to his thorough nature, it was cute as _hell._ When it wasn't tied to Steve's fear. When it didn't come with casual insults directed inward.

"You're not as bad a teacher as you keep telling me you are," Steve said, knocking their shoulders together, once he'd returned to their spot at the island.

"And you aren't as bad at cooking as you keep telling me _you_ are," Billy returned, elbowing him lightly. Steve didn't know him, yet. Didn't know what he'd done, what he was capable of. Didn't know what Neil brought out of him. He didn't know the _shitheel_ Billy had been, back before he'd even left the west coast. He didn't _know_ why Billy worked so hard to be so kind. Same as Billy didn't _know_ who had said enough shit to Steve that he couldn't even go an hour without repeating some second-hand nonsense. "Really."

"Oh, _please_." Steve rolled his eyes, and Billy struggled to hold his tongue.

"Go ahead and put fifteen minutes on the timer, and we'll get started on some salad and dressing," Billy said, and moved toward the fridge to keep himself busy. The thin, spikey leaves of frisée and the bag of watercress stems, with their round, dark leaves. "I'm gonna give you some other dressing recipes, too, because we’ve got about forty minutes to kill. Good?"

Steve didn't look convinced, but he nodded and dragged his notebook closer. "Okay, what have we got?"

"First, a bitter greens and citrus salad to go with the chicken," Billy said, dropping piles of ingredients on the island between them. "Then I'm gonna show you a couple different kinds of dressings, then I'll give you a couple more easy recipes."

Steve perked up a little, "Ranch?"

" _Yes_ , ranch. Obviously. I know my audience," Billy said, rolling his eyes.

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Steve demanded, hands on his hips. 

"Do you, or do you not, dip your pizza in ranch?" 

Steve raised a finger toward Billy, mouth open to argue, only to deflate a little with an eyeroll of his own. "Alright, fair point. Hit me."

“Okay. First, salad.” 

He walked Steve through the different greens; chicories and _No, Steve, I promise they aren’t actually lettuce_ or _cabbage_ and watercress and _Yes, Pretty Boy, you can eat dandelion greens_. Watched him carefully slice thin rounds of kumquat. Watched his mouth twist as he licked the tart, sour juice from his fingers. _Didn't_ get ideas, or think untoward thoughts about this guest. Yet.

"Okay, I'm gonna show you how to cut on this grapefruit, and then you can do the rest," he said, pulling the cutting board closer. "What you wanna do is--"

“Oh, um, I can’t actually eat grapefruit,” Steve said, wincing a little. “I’m--it’s my, uh, my medication. Can’t have grapefruit.”

Billy froze, knife poised to cut. He knew what that meant, knew the implications. Grapefruit reacted with anxiety medication. It was something he was well aware of, thanks to Robin. Admittedly, Billy should have asked if there were things Steve couldn't eat, or if he had allergies. Should have planned it better. Should have _known_ better than to just assume.

What he _didn't_ get was why Steve was looking like he'd just single-handedly ruined the whole evening. His shoulders were drawn up toward his ears, face crumpled into a disappointed grimace. Like he was waiting to be admonished. 

Billy _hated_ that look. With every ounce of his _being_.

“Uh, what about a tangelo?" he asked, scrambling for something to say. "Will that still give you problems?”

Steve blinked, head tilted in mild confusion. “I don’t know, actually. What is that?”

“Cross between a tangerine and grapefruit,” Billy said, and then waved it away just as quick as it had come. “Let’s just skip it, actually. Just to be safe.”

"It's probably, fine, you can--"

"No, no. I'd really rather not," Billy said, shaking his head. "I'm used to working around this kind of thing. My friend takes anxiety medication, too, she just tends to jump into things with reckless abandon."

That startled a little laugh out of Steve. "Reckless abandon?"

"She refuses to believe anything other than grapefruit is a problem and refuses to do research on it," Billy clarified, because it was _true._ He'd had that argument with her many times. "Anyway, I'll show you on a blood orange instead. And we can add another orange and some more kumquats, okay?"

Steve nodded, smile wide. "Sounds good. And _thanks_."

"Nah, nothing to thank. I probably should have asked if you had allergies or anything like that," Billy said, waving him off. “I should have asked before, so I’m sorry about that. Anyway, you’ll want to trim the ends like this,” he said, narrating his work, as he sliced the tops off of the orange in his hand to reveal the dark red fruit, “so you can see the flesh like this, okay? And then you’ll want to slide the knife down the side to cut off the peel and pith. Like this, so you can only see the fruit and none of the gross, white pith. Okay? Then slice it into quarter-inch slices, like this, so you can see the segments.”

“Okay, I _guess_ ,” Steve muttered, looking hesitant, but he accepted the knife when Billy offered it. “You sure I won’t cut my fingers off?”

“Not if you’re careful and using a sharp knife,” Billy assured him. And then he frowned, “Did you remember to bring your knives for me to sharpen?”

Steve paused, then groaned. “ _Shit_. No, I forgot.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. But, I’ll show you how to sharpen and care for them if you bring them in next time,” Billy said, easily. “Go on, give it a go.”

“Sorry. I’m a forgetful dumbass,” he muttered, then pushed on. “Okay, trim the ends, right?”

And he did it on the first try, just the way he’d done with everything else. He mixed the vinaigrette just the way Billy told him to, didn’t do a thing wrong. He dutifully scribbled out recipes as Billy said them, followed to a _T_ when given the reigns. 

The only real issue was that Steve didn’t stop _talking_. He continued his flippant comments, kept calling himself an idiot. Too _stupid_ to do this, too _dumb_ to do that. Put himself down so many times Billy lost count. So many times that he got _angry_. Angry about how easily that shit fell from his mouth, how it didn’t seem to phase him. LIke it was second nature to be put down like that. The more he had to listen to it--the more Steve said it--the _angrier_ Billy got. Until it was simmering away at the back of his throat, hot and acidic and threatening to boil over. 

It would only be so long before Steve pushed him over, before he said something like--

“God, damn it, I’m an idiot. Sorry, Billy.”

\-- _that._

"Alright, _enough_ ," Billy snapped, loud and sharp enough that Steve physically jumped back from the small spill he’d been cleaning. "I have absolutely _had it_ with that fucking _bullshit_."

Steve flinched, breath catching in his throat. He was startled, _scared_. Of _Billy_. Eyes wide and darting, posture tense, hands shaking more than a little.

He took a deep breath and tried his best to bring his volume down. 

"I am--not having a _good day_ , alright? I’m fucking… I am in a bad headspace right now, and I should have cancelled so this didn’t happen, and I'm sorry for yelling, but, Steve, you aren't _bad_ at this," Billy said, trying to keep as calm as possible. Not that it helped, but even he could admire his own effort. 

"But I set _fire_ to my--"

"There's a difference between being bad at something, and just not _knowing how to do it_ ," Billy said, sharply, cutting him off. "No one ever showed you how, Steve. People who teach themselves how to cook still have to have some help at the start. Still have to have a basic understanding of it for the rest to make sense. You haven't had that until _now_."

Steve looked spooked, frozen in place like a deer in the headlights. Still a little afraid, a little disbelieving. Like he wanted to either run or argue. Completely and utterly blindsided.

"I'm not… I'm sorry, you don't deserve this---this fucking _tone_ I'm using, but I need you to believe me," Billy said, hands on his hips. "You aren't _bad_ at this. Hell, another couple nights or so, and you'll have enough knowledge to pick up any recipe and follow it. You keep coming in here doing everything right, and you keep acting like you aren't smart enough to do it."

"I-I'm _not_ smart, though," Steve murmured, blinking rapidly. God, and he was _shaking_. "I'm _not_. I have--I have th-the re-report cards to prove it. My parents fucking--they _bought_ my way into c-college. I'm--"

"And weren't you the one to tell me that you _weren't_ gonna let that be what got you through, huh?” Billy demanded, stepping a little closer. “Isn't that what you said?"

Steve flinched a little, closing his mouth with a snap. His lip trembled, his eyes glassy. 

" _Idiots_ don't survive law school, Steve, no matter what their parents pay," Billy said, fiercely, and reached a hand out toward Steve. Fuck, and he _flinched_ , but Billy kept going. He squeezed Steve's shoulder, as gentle as he could manage. "You _aren't_ an idiot. You aren't dumb, or stupid or any of that other shit you keep trying to feed me. Whoever said that shit to you--loud enough that it hasn't stopped ringin' around that pretty little head of yours--they are the fucking idiot. _You_ aren't an idiot, Steve. Stop fucking saying nonsense like that."

Steve stared at him, eyes wide and wet and still shaken. There was still a quiver to his lip as he held back shuddering breaths, threatening to spill over into a sob.

Billy _did that_.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry," Billy murmured, and pulled him into a hug. Steve immediately fell against him, long arms wrapping tight around his waist. "Shit, I'm so sorry, Steve--"

There was a laugh against his shoulder, rather than the sob he expected, long arms squeezing his rib cage tight. "That's the--the _nicest f-fucking thing_ \--" Steve broke off with another wet laugh, shoulders shaking beneath Billy's hands. "Billy, _jesus_! That was… goddamn it, you asshole."

Billy sagged in relief, dropping his temple to rest against Steve's. "Sorry. I could've… done that a little quieter."

Steve scoffed, the sound muffled in the crook of Billy's neck. He was still shaking a little, but it was with warm laughter. "Wouldn't've listened if you'd said it any quieter."

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna keep saying it until you fucking _believe me_ ," Billy grumbled. He smoothed a hand across Steve's trembling shoulders, touching as much of his as he could. He smelled like bergamot and tonka bean and patchouli. "No more baseless insults in this kitchen. Or _your kitchen._ They're banned in this whole goddamn time zone."

"What happens if I don't listen?" Steve asked, chuckling.

"I'll sue," Billy said, firmly, relishing in the way Steve shook against him. Full of bubbly laughter and relief, a far cry from the start of his tirade. He was relaxed beneath Billy's hands, warm and soft and wrapped up safe against his chest. "Trust me. I know a real good lawyer, owes me a favour."

“You’re such a _dork_.” He laughed again, wheezy and breathless. He was heavy and warm in Billy's grip.

"You okay?" Billy asked, pulling back a little. Not quite _away_ , exactly. Not fully out of Steve's orbit. Just enough to look at him, see the light play across the ripples of amber and gold in his whiskey eyes.

"Yes--yeah. Um, th-thanks. I needed that," Steve laughed, wiping at his eyes. His smile was wobbly but it was genuine. "Didn't realize it bothered you that much."

"Didn't realize it _didn't_ bother you that much."

He shrugged a little, cheeks red enough Billy swore he could feel the heat of them. "Used to it, I guess."

"You _shouldn't_ be."

"I know, I just…" He broke off with a sigh and a small, rueful shake of his head. When he looked back up, Billy froze. Because they _were_ close. So fucking _close_.

And they both jumped as the timer buzzed behind them, dinner long forgotten in the oven.

“I, uh, think that’s for me,” Steve murmured, stepping back from the embrace. “I’ll just… stir everything, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Billy leaned against the counter in front of him, and took a few calming breaths. Concentrated on something dripping in the sink, the heat of the open oven door at his back, the electronic dancey trash Steve had quietly playing from his phone. “It’s almost done, so go ahead and make sure the chicken is skin-side up, and then set the timer for another fifteen minutes.”

“Done and…” There was a little shuffling, the clicking sound of the timer knob being twisted. “Done!” Another soft shuffling sound, and then Steve was back at his elbow. He gave Billy a small, bright smile and nodded toward the jars and bottles still littering the counter. "Um, keep going?"

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, let's make some ranch," he said, and waved Steve closer. “Grab the buttermilk and mayo from the fridge, will you?”

Steve gave him a grin and a salute, and hopped to work.

He still felt _raw._ Still jumped at shadows. Still felt shaken to his core, ready to run at the first sign of trouble. Still wanted to rip and tear and _burn_ until the hurt was so big and wide that he didn't even feel it anymore.

But every brush of Steve's shoulder against his own quenched the fire just a little more. Maybe not _enough_ , but it was enough for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to all of you lovely people who keep coming back and joining me dumb little (well, not so little anymore...) thing: you give me me life and i appreciate you a whooooooole lot! <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i didn't mean to take this long! writing hopper turned out to be a bit of a struggle for me, and writing hopper while ALSO trying to keep plot strings straight and make everything in this chapter come together the way i wanted it to was worse! i don't know how this ended up at 4000 words when it feels like i accomplished nothing..
> 
> also we're entering the part of the story that i have blocked out and planned, but not as much pre-written like the first few chapters, so it might be longer between posting than usual--thought hopefully not THIS long, jeeze...
> 
> also i wanna give a HUGE thanks and a big ol hug to [gideongrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideongrace/pseuds/gideongrace) who has been amazingly supportive and helped me stay positive while i was struggling with writer's block and bad brain. thank you sooo much, without you this chapter wouldn't have happened at all! thank you for putting up with my bullshit and giving the best pep talks and making me cry in a good way and not letting me give up <33

Jim Hopper was a mountain of a man.

The kind of man Billy had made an entire career out of running from, gruff and stern and serious. Had a searching gaze that felt far too familiar, like the man was looking right through every wall and shield Billy had ever put up. He gave off an air of _Authority_ that had Billy's spine going rigid and his gut going cold. 

He made Billy want to _run._

But he didn't. He'd promised Max that he was done running, promised Robin he was done fighting. He wasn't going to ruin this, wasn't going to fuck up a sure thing just because he couldn't get himself under control. He _wanted_ to, of course he did. He wanted to lift his chin and bite and snap, fight back before the fight had even begun. 

But he _didn't_. Personal growth, and all that.

"Billy Hargrove," he introduced himself and extended a hand, hoping he didn't look half as wild-eyed and jittery as he felt. "Good to meet you, sir."

His handshake was firm and measured. Not _tight_ , but controlled. Not--not _bad_.

"None of that _sir_ shit, you can call me Hopper. Everyone else does," he said, with a small huff of a laugh. 

"Or Hop," Robin said, a laugh in her voice as she finally emerged from her corner of the kitchen. Those were the first words she'd said to Billy since Wednesday morning, and they weren't really even _for him._ She threw herself at _Hopper_ , with a laugh, arms winding tight around his neck. "How ya doin', Chief?"

A put upon sigh, a small chuckle. He knew Robin, and knew her well. "None a'that shit either. I'm retired," he grumbled, lifting her off the floor for a few short seconds.

"Sure thing, _Chief_."

He rolled his eyes and dropped her back to her feet. “ _Retired_."

"Yeah, yeah. _Sure_ ," Robin laughed, and Billy could practically hear her eyeroll. 

She looked tiny, stood next to him like that. Fragile and breakable in ways Billy knew she wasn't. Ways that made him want to grab her and _run._ Nancy, too. Both of them looked so _small_ , looked delicate, looked like it wouldn't take much to shatter them to pieces. 

The scene reminded him of _Max_. The way she had looked when Neil brought her and Susan home that first time, cold eyes and a hand on her shoulder that sat heavy as a threat on Billy's chest.

Except Hopper's expression wasn't cold, wasn't anything close to dangerous. He looked _indulgent_ and was failing to hide it. 

"Oh, Billy, this is my husband, Jonathan," Nancy said, brightly, waving over a man Billy didn't recognize, just as he stepped through the doorway. He froze there for a moment, wide-eyed and startled as a deer in headlights, before he forced a small smile and an awkward wave. "Hop is his step-dad."

"Not until you marry my mother, you're not," Jonathan said, wagging a finger in Hopper's face as he was dragged past. But it was easy, said with humor and affection. A joke that had Hopper's expression going soft, a laugh escaping him.

"I'm getting around to it," he chuckled. His eyes were bright and calm, a far cry from what Billy had expected.

Jonathan laughed a little, and then offered Billy a hand. "Hey, man. Jon Byers," he said, voice suddenly quiet and rough. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it didn’t carry any kind of judgment. A passing sort of interest and nothing more. "It's, uh, good to meet you."

"Yeah, you, too." Billy forced some kind of a smile, didn't squeeze his hand too tight, didn't look at him like he was looking for a fight. "Nancy told me a lot about you."

"Yeah?" His cheeks dusted pink immediately. He ducked his head a little, looked up at Nancy more than a little shyly. As if they weren't married already. As if they weren't professed _high school sweethearts_. 

And Nancy gave him a small smile that may as well have been wide as the grand canyon for how it made Jon's blush go even darker.

It was disgusting.

Kinda cute, sweet. Mostly disgusting.

He opened his mouth to make a joke, to get his footing and ease his own tension, but Robin beat him to it. She made a joke, one Billy didn't hear, but it had Hopper laughing. Loud enough to draw Nancy and Jon's attention away. Loud enough to ring in Billy's ears, sudden enough to make his breath catch and stutter in his lungs. Big enough to make him _flinch._

But no one noticed, not one of them was paying him any mind and he didn't know if he should be thankful for it.

Robin made another joke he didn't hear over the loud, echoing beat of his heart. He was _small_ next to him, but she wasn't scared. She was laughing and calm and _happy_. And she still wouldn't look at him.

None of them looked his way. They were all laughing, chatting and joking together. Their own little family, of sorts.

And, Billy? Billy just watched on. Stepped back and stood to the sidelines and watched them and tried to calm the heart rattling around in his chest.

There were things that Robin refused to tell him, shit she’d gone through back home that left her in shivers just to think about. He hadn’t pushed, hoped she might tell him one day. He’d always hoped he’d be a safe enough place for her that she would one day feel like she _could_.

She didn’t need him, though. She had a family at her back that Billy’d never even known about, that she'd never shared with him. People who wouldn't just _understand_ , but had probably been there with her through it all. People who _knew_. Billy couldn’t say that.

“Well, we’re off,” Nancy declared, pulling Billy from his thoughts as she dragged Jonathan off by the hand. She had one of those small smiles, a little pinched like she was struggling to keep it from growing into a mile-wide grin. “We'll let you know when we swing back by.”

Billy didn’t know what they were doing, where they were going. Didn’t know why Robin was quickly following along at their heels, didn’t know why she was leaving him _alone_. She knew him, knew exactly how he got around men like Hopper. She knew his tells back to front, would know with just a look how uncomfortable he was. 

But, he supposed, she’d have to _look at him_ first.

He watched her go, stayed rooted to his spot. He just wanted her to look at him again, call him a dumbass while she was at it. Call him an asshole. Call him any goddamn name she wanted, if she would just fucking _look at him again_. 

“Yeah, yeah. Have fun,” Hopper said, waving them off. 

“Sure, dad,” Jonathan called over his shoulder, a joke in his voice.

“Hey, that's _step-dad_ to you!” Hopper’s voice was loud and booming, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t directed at Billy, that it wasn't truly stern or angry, it still made him shiver and flinch. Hopper didn’t seem to notice, though. He turned a clapped Billy’s shoulder, “I guess that’s our cue to get to work.”

He nodded, awkward and stilted. “Sure. What do we need to do?”

He felt raw, _obvious_. Like every single thought and fear and impulse was written out across his face. But either he was a better actor than he thought, or Jim Hopper was oblivious. The man just nodded toward the front windows. “Walk me through the set up you want, we’ll get everything measured as we go. Sound like a start?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah.”

“Nance said you wanted a twelve-seater up here, right?” 

There was a long, narrow alcove in the front window of the place, pushed up between the wall and the entrance ramp. It was what had first drawn Billy to the building. Evening light would bounce off the far wall, lining the other side of the entrance-way, lighting up the alcove in a soft glow. 

It was narrow, just like the rest of the space. It wasn’t _big_ , not the kind of place he was used to working. Damn near _tiny_ , in fact. Wouldn’t have taken much to turn the place into a cafe, or some shitty standing-room-only college bar; small and something close to cramped. Wouldn’t take much to feel crowded, to feel _bursting_. Full and loud with life and laughter. It was _cozy_. It wasn’t a big, sterile ballroom, full of bright light and chandeliers and crisp, white tablecloths. 

It was a glorified broom closet with a kitchen and tall, _tall_ ceilings and bar that just needed refinished. Billy had loved it immediately.

He wondered what Hopper saw when he looked at it, wondered what it looked at from the outside. He wondered what _Robin_ saw. If she was sure it was the right fit for them, or if she was doing nothing more than humoring him. Her reputation would come out intact if it all imploded. Billy was the only one with something to lose if it didn’t work out, if he fucked it all up somehow.

“Yeah. If you think that would fit, that is.” He followed along behind the man, shaking hands shoved deep into his pockets. Why were they shaking?

“It looks good to me, but let’s get it measured up.” Hopper dug an old tape measure out of his back pocket. It was small, dwarfed by the sheer size of his hands. One of the old ones with the fabric tape, one that needed to be wound back up by hand. It didn’t exactly fit with the idea of Hopper forming in his head, but he accepted the worn fabric without complaint and carried it to the end of the alcove. “Once we get this all measured up, I’ll get some kind of plan drawn up for you. Sound good?”

Billy nodded, trying his damnedest to shove all his anxieties to the side. He couldn’t afford to get himself worked up again. Couldn’t afford to fuck up again. “Sounds like a plan.”

So he worked. Did everything that Hopper told him to. Walked where he was told to, measured this, held that. He answered any questions as best as he could. Pointed out where he wanted a row of booths, where he wanted long hightops and the four-seaters. 

He answered questions he didn't even know needed asking. Questions about storage, if he was happy with the shelving and cupboards lining the wall behind the bar, if needed an extra cabinet built or more shelving. If he _wanted_ anything.

It was exhausting, really. Being polite, being quiet, shoving everything down where he didn't have to think about it or deal with it. He couldn't quite get up a mask of charm like he usually would, but he didn't bite or snap. He didn't argue where there was nothing to argue about, didn't make problems just to have something to get angry about. 

He was good _._ He _did_ good. 

But his hands never once stopped shaking. Not even with a tape measure in hand, nothing with a task to do. 

Hopper didn't seem to notice, though. Not once.

But he wasn't rude, either. He didn't give Billy any trouble, didn't raise his voice if Billy misunderstood a request. Didn't once step out of line in a way that made his heart spike or his breath catch. He was calm and steady. Quiet, almost.

If anything, he helped settle some of Billy's nerves. Not much, of course. Not enough. He was still a stranger in Billy's space, still an unknown. 

It was a godsend once they finished measuring and Billy could hide away back in his kitchen, alone.

"So you're a Hargrove, huh?" 

Mostly.

Hopper was leaned over the stainless counter, ruler and calculator and paper laid out in front of him as he scribbled out measurements and plans. He'd followed along at Billy's heels, set up shop by the kitchen door. “You from Hawkins, too?”

He shook his head, "No, sir, California born and raised."

"Any family out in Indiana?"

"No, sir. Not that I've heard about, anyway."

"For the best, really," he grumbled, darkly. "He's a real piece of work."

"Never met a Hargrove that _wasn't_ ," Billy answered honestly, with a small, rueful sort of laugh. Neil's dad hadn't been any better than Neil had been, and Billy didn't want to imagine any further than that. He'd been lucky enough to never have to meet any other relatives than that.

Hopper glanced up at that, though, and his expression was a far cry softer than Billy had truly expected. No traces of pity in his expression, just understanding. But he didn’t say anything, just gave Billy a small nod and got back to his work. Then his expression went a little sour, "And no more of that _sir_ shit, I already told you."

"Yes, _Chief_."

Hopper gave him a dark look, and it might've made Billy's stomach churn had his eyes not been dancing with humor. Then he nodded toward the stove, “What are you making over there? Smells great.” 

"Glaze for some chicken wings I've got marinating," Billy answered, turning his attention back to the pan in front of him. "Figured the least I could do is provide some lunch."

"Well, I'm not gonna say no, but you don't need to go out of your way, kid." 

"I'm not really going out of my way if all I'm doing is making you a guinea pig," Billy said with a smirk. _This_ he could do. He could speak snark just as well as he could speak food. "Call it multitasking."

Hopper gave an easy little chuckle and shook his head as he turned back to his work. He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like _little shit_ , but Billy couldn’t be certain. “Well you keep on with that, I’m gonna go take a few more measurements out front.”

“Need a hand?” Billy offered, because he _could_ be nice when he wanted.

Hopper just waved him off, easily, “No, no. I’ll holler if I need anything, but I think I got it for the moment.”

"Alright. Wings will be done in about twenty."

"Perfect. Thanks, kid."

The moment he was out of sight, Billy sagged back against the counter, sucking in a deep breath as he went. He turned and leaned over the lazily bubbling saucepan, inhaled deeply. Once, twice. Took in the rich scent of coffee, the bite of spice and chili. Another deep breath, let the familiar scent settle in his lungs. 

Everything was _fine._

Rationally, he _knew_ that. Hopper wasn't a bad man, couldn't be if Robin knew him. If Robin liked him. He _knew that_ , rationally. She wouldn't have left him otherwise, no matter how angry she was with him. He was safe, Hopper was safe, and everything was _fine_.

If he could stop fucking _panicking_ , at least, it would be fine. 

He didn't like strangers in his home, but Hopper wasn't a stranger anymore. Not _really_. He didn't like authority figures, but Hopper wasn't one. He was a man with an antique measuring tape and kind eyes beneath his hard expression. 

He didn't handle aggression well, and he'd received nothing of the like from the other man. Hopper spoke in rough, low tones. He laughed and made jokes. He was kind and polite and easy.

Billy didn't handle men well, especially not ones that reminded him of his father. And Hopper _didn't_. 

He took another deep breath and pushed away from the counter. 

Everything was fine, he could get through the day, and he'd been one step closer to everything he'd been dreaming of. He could answer any more questions Hopper had for him, and he could do it with an even voice and a calm heart. Billy could help with anything he needed, and he could do it with steady hands.

But first, chicken wings.

He took another deep breath and got to work. Fell into the easy, familiar rhythm, let his hands take over and his mind clear. Settled into the heat of the grill on his face, the burn of rich spice in his lungs. Let himself get lost in it. 

Soon enough, his nerves had steadied and he could hear Hopper's heavy footsteps in the kitchen doorway.

“Hey, kids texted," Hopper said, looking at his phone as he pushed back through the kitchen door. "They'll be back in about fifteen--oh, those for me?"

Billy nodded and offered up the plate, piled high with grilled wings. "Yep. Coffee-honey glazed wings."

"Thank christ, I'm starving," Hopper said, and dumped his papers to the countertop to greedily accept the plate of wings. "So, lucky for you, your floors are completely level."

"And that's good, right?"

"Well, yeah, obviously." 

It wasn't said to put Billy down, but it sure made him feel stupid. But he just grit his teeth and nodded. It wasn't _meant_ to be mean. Robin would _never_ have left him alone with a man like that. "Right."

"Just means we won't have to do any extra work getting a platform built for the booths," Hopper said, oblivious as he dug into the food. 

He inhaled the first wing, and then a second. By the third, he'd finally slowed enough to taste the food. He nodded to himself, stern face relaxed and pleased, and another little bit of Billy's nerves calmed.

" _Christ_ , kid, these are good," he muttered, reaching for another wing. "Anyway, the, uh, bartop shouldn't be too difficult. It was the part I was most worried about, but it looks like I can get it removed and replaced without too much trouble."

Billy nodded. "I liked those photos Nancy passed along, too. For the, uh, paneling under the bar."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Liked the look of it," he said, quietly. And he really had. Slim, rough cut, stripes of reclaimed wood. Some old and rough, the kind of sun-worn and weathered wood he remembered once seeing on an abandoned church. Other cuts were flecked with crackled and flaking red and yellow paint, stripes of old signs finally finding a bit of use again. 

"Good, we can get something like that assembled," Hopper said, mouth full. He _looked_ pleased, and Billy didn't even want to start considering what the bill was going to look like. "You know what you're thinking of for the tables?"

"Oak, I think, but you're the expert here," Billy said, shrugging. "I'll defer to you on that one."

"Oak is a good choice, would look real nice in here." Hopper shrugged and nodded, "I'll leave you with some samples, anyway, case anything else catches your eye. I think I left them in Jon's car, I'll grab 'em before we head off."

"Yeah, sure."

"Any idea what you're looking at for lighting?"

At that, Billy groaned and dropped his chin to his chest. He _still_ hadn't called an electrician, and it was getting down to the wire. " _No_. I've been putting that one off."

Hopper snorted, shook his head a little. " _Well_ , when you do get around to it, I might have some ideas."

" _Anything_ , as long as I don't have to think about it."

That time, Hopper _laughed_. It wasn't a _bad_ sound, wasn't mocking or mean. It was nice, and Billy let himself relax with the sound of it.

"Well, my daughter is an artist--a sculptor. Likes working with metal and electricity," Hopper said, between licking his fingers clean. "My youngest son, too. I think they'd have some ideas if you're interested."

Billy just blinked at him. "I don't know that we were looking for some kind of, like, _art installation._ "

Hopper chuckled again. "No, I don't really think that's your style, either. Jane likes doing small, practical things, sometimes. Will likes working with light--when he's not got charcoal in his hands, at least. I figure they could get something worked up for you."

Lost, and a little overwhelmed, Billy just nodded. "Yeah, alright. If you think they'd wanna do that, you can send them this way."

"I think they could do a lot with the space you've got here," Hopper said, nodding. He picked up his plate and dumped the bones in the trash as he wandered toward the sink.

"Oh, you can just leave that. I'll--"

"No, no. I don't leave dishes."

"You're in a restaurant."

"Not until you're open, I'm not," Hopper shot back, giving the plate a good rinse and scrub. He sat it in the tray for the washer and turned back to Billy with a shrug, "Anyway, I think they'd have some ideas. You don't have a _big_ space here, but those tall ceilings are something to play with."

"Yeah, if you really think they want to, I'd like that."

"Good, I'll send 'em along." Hopper gathered up his papers, tilted his head back out toward the main floor. "Anyway, got somethin' to show ya, before I head off."

He wasn’t loud as he looked. Wasn’t gruff once he got going. Wasn’t quite what Billy had expected, if he was honest. He was disarming, almost. Had the heavy brow of a man who'd seen too much. Weary, rather than stern. Tired, but at ease.

Billy found, the longer he stayed in Hopper's space, he didn't mind him so much.

So he didn't hesitate to follow along at Hopper's heels. He expected some problem, something that needed fixed or repaired. Something else to add to his growing list of concerns. 

At the doorway, he paused, frowning in confusion.

He blinked a few times, but the lines stayed. 

The floor was a mess of white lines, tracing out squares and rectangles across the floor. It took him much longer than he'd want to admit to figure out what it all meant.

"I got a layout drawn up for you on paper, but I figure it's easier to visualize like this," Hopper said, wandering further into the dining room. "Give you an idea of the space you've got to work with."

The lines _stayed_.

It was a map. A layout. A blocked out walking path through the entire restaurant, from the door and all the way to the kitchen. Hopper had gone and drawn out each hightop, each stool rounding the bar, each booth, each chair rounding the space a table would sit in the front window. Everything. 

And he could _see_ it, almost. 

Could see the tables rise out do the floor, could _feel_ what it would be like to walk through the room. Could imagine weaving through people and tables, full and loud.

And it scared the _hell_ out of Billy.

"This is a good place you've got here," Hopper said, surveying the space again. Not much had changed since that morning. Just some white lines drawn on a stone floor, but it felt a little more tangible. A little more _real._

But chalk could be wiped clean, dusted away and disappeared.

It wouldn't take much and Billy'd be left with nothing. All he had was an empty shell, a dark cavern that he wanted _so_ _badly_ to fill. All he had was a chalk dust map, and it wouldn't take much more than a stiff breeze and he wouldn't even have _that_.

"This'll be a great spot once you get going," Hopper said, nodding to himself, unaware of sharp pangs of fear stabbing into Billy's chest. "Gonna be somethin’ real special."

"Yeah." Billy swallowed past the lump in his throat, gave a shaky little nod. He wondered, again, just what Hopper was seeing as he surveyed the room. If he saw the future Billy was hoping for. If he saw warm light and good food and nothing but laughter and smiles as far back as he could see. Or if he was just talking to fill the silence. "Yeah, I sure hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that you everyone who sticks with this fic and keeps enjoying it and reading along! you're all lovely and wonderful and overwhelming and i can't thank you enough, either <33


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be a short chapter. but then i decided yesterday that i wanted it to be something entirely different, and then it got much longer and where we are. yay! i think? sure.
> 
> anyway, as always, you can come bother me on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where i'm 90% dumbass and 10% wrestling. it's a good time. also, [food masterlist](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/post/615333160587296768/lamp-bright-rind-chapter-11) will be updated after chapter 15, if you're following those along.
> 
> the song playing is The Twist by Frightened Rabbit

He greeted Steve with a tight smile. He knew it must have looked pained, didn't need to see himself to know that. "Hey, I meant to call, or whatever, but I don't think I'm really--I'm not up to lessons tonight."

"Are you feeling okay?" Steve asked, carefully stepping into the apartment.

"I'm--no, not really. My head isn't on quite right today."

"I think you mean _this week_ ," Steve said with a brief hint of a smile. He had a furrow to his brow, but it was concern, for once, not fear. Like he might very well press the back of his hand to Billy’s forehead, like a loving mom in some sitcom. "What's up?"

"I, um, I'd rather not talk about it right now?" he said, weakly, and Steve just nodded in understanding.

"That's fine, I don't want to pry," Steve said, with a small shake of his head. He had a hand outstretched between them, almost unconsciously reaching for Billy. "Do you want me to go? Or would you like some company for a bit?"

"You don't have to go," Billy said, offering as much of a smile as he could manage. "But I don't think I'm gonna be good company tonight."

"Nonsense, you're always good company," Steve murmured. He had a look on his face that Billy wasn't entirely used to; something soft and _fond_ and worried. He stepped further into Billy’s space and immediately wrapped those long arms around him and Billy _sank_ into the hold before he even registered the movement.

Steve wrapped an arm low, just under his rib cage, holding him tight and steady. His other hand threaded into Billy's messy hair, cupping the back of his head in one slender palm. He didn’t seem to mind the curtain of curls he had to push through to tuck his face down against Billy’s neck.

Billy shivered and his arms fell around Steve’s waist as he held on for dear life. 

It was different from their last hug, when Steve was the one needing some comfort. When Billy was too worked up to enjoy it, too jittery and angry to do much more than hold on. _This_ was different.

It should have been odd, standing in his open doorway, wrapped around a man he'd known only a few weeks. Should have been weird, clinging to a near-stranger like that. But each time he thought to start untangling himself, Steve would shift against him; swipe a hand up his back, press fingertips gently against his scalp, tuck his face a little further into the crook of Billy's neck, each little puff of breath against his skin making him shiver.

Each time he thought to pull away, Steve held him tighter--pulled him _closer_ \--until the tension had all but left him. Until he didn't feel quite so brittle, quite so worn down.

He thought he must have been nothing but dead weight in the embrace, but Steve didn't seem to mind one bit.

Eventually, he stepped back and studied Billy, eyes narrowed and assessing. His hands remained a warm weight on Billy's biceps, holding him steady. "Maybe it's my turn to teach you tonight."

Billy grasped onto that familiar lifeline--the opportunity to be a _dick_ \--and held on tight. He snorted, loud and embarrassing and obnoxious and _definitely_ more than a little rude. "And what are _you_ planning to teach _me_ , Pretty Boy?"

Unimpressed, Steve lightly shoved his shoulder, "I'm gonna ignore your goddamn _tone_ for the moment, is what I'm gonna start with." He lifted a stern eyebrow toward Billy, and then marched himself into the kitchen. "C'mon. Let's see what we're working with."

"For what?"

"It's a surprise," he tossed back over his shoulder with a small smile. Steve quickly unpacked his bag, shoving his supplies out of the way beneath a cupboard, and turned to Billy with his hands on his hips, "Alright, what kind of cheese do you have?"

"Uh, mimolette, burrata, gruyère," he listed off, trying to figure out what Steve was on about.

Pretty Boy just made a face. "So, like, no _normal_ sliced cheese?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "You know what, just let me look in your fridge. This requires expert appraisal."

Billy laughed a little, despite himself, and stepped out of the way. "Have at it, princess, if you're such an expert."

Steve sniffed haughtily. He lifted his chin and gave Billy a look down his nose, "Thank you, _peasant_."

With a deep bow, Billy swung the fridge door open with a flourish--and got a lovely, amused little giggle from Steve for his trouble. One that had his shoulders bouncing up toward his ears, eyes scrunched closed.

Billy had to look away for a moment, else he might've done something dumb and impulsive like _kiss him_.

Steve didn’t seem to notice, though. He was busy sorting through Billy’s shelves, bottles and jars clinking as he rifled through condiments and muttered to himself. It was cute, so comfortable and domestic that it made Billy ache just to think about it ending.

He’d spent the week so anxious he couldn’t think straight. Spent days worrying over nothing and everything all at once. Fearing how easy it would be to lose everything he’d built, how it could all disappear in a blink. 

_This_ , though-- _Steve_ , standing there in his kitchen again--wasn’t even a question. He _was_ going to leave. It wasn’t a matter of when, that part would happen regardless. He’d leave later that night, leave after their next night of cooking lessons, and the few more that would probably come after that. And there would be a day when he would leave, and he wouldn’t return. It wasn’t just Billy's anxiety yelling at him from the darkness at the back of his mind, it wasn’t a question. Steve _would_ leave.

But his presence was always soothing and calming enough that it didn’t matter. For a few hours, at least, he could forget it.

When Billy looked up, Steve looked to be preparing to run to the store. But, at the _least_ , he was going to come back.

"Okay, you cook some bacon," Steve said, canvas bags slung back over his shoulder. "Chop some lettuce. Or cabbage, I dunno what you like. Or sprouts? I saw you had some in there. And some onion slices. Do you have a tomato?”

“Yes, I will also slice a tomato,” Billy said, rolling his eyes.

“See?" He gently reached out and pinched Billy's cheek, "Knew I could count on you.” 

He looked _excited_ and it was infectious. Kept Billy smiling softly, despite the confusion and the overwhelming weight still settled on his chest. “What are you even _looking_ for, Pretty Boy?”

“ _Stuff_.” He gave Billy another million watt grin, “I'll be back in, like, twenty minutes at most, okay?" 

“Steve, you don’t have to get anything, I’m sure I have--”

“Yeah, you have a whole lot,” Steve said, flapping an impatient hand at him. “But you don’t have _everything_ , okay? And we can’t make the _perfect_ turkey sandwich without _everything._ So, I’m gonna make sure we have everything we need to pull this off, because it has to be _perfect_.”

Billy huffed a small laugh, all fight draining out of him the moment those great big, _earnest_ eyes were turned on him. "Alright, if you're sure."

Steve hesitated a moment, and then pulled him into another crushing hug. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Just like before, Billy sank into the embrace. Steve was _warm_ , and he was soft. He smelled like sweet, musky spice--like pen ink and a spike of rosemary and orange blossom and sweet, rich ambergris. 

He _fit_. He felt safe. He felt like he was _home_.

He pulled back before he could get lost in it. "Go on and flip the swing guard on your way out, so the door is propped open."

Steve made a face. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just come on in when you get back," Billy said, easily, and waved him off. "Now hurry up, Pretty Boy. M'getting hungry."

He laughed, and waved, and hurried off.

Steve had left his phone on the counter, the music playing softly from it sounding warm and joyful to his ears. A thick, accented voice telling him to _twist yourself around me, I need company, I need human heat, I need human heat_ in a way that made him want to run after Steve and gather him back close again. 

Instead, he set to work.

He started with the bacon, just as Steve had requested. Set it on the back burner going low and slow, so he wouldn't have to keep too watchful an eye on it.

While that was going, he set out the mayo, like Steve had asked him to. Set out a range of different mustards; from the spicy sweet pepper mustard, to the whole grain he'd made himself, to the classic yellow mustard he refused to admit he tended to prefer. Set out all the pickled vegetables in his fridge, even if he thought Steve would turn up his nose at most of them. 

He dutifully cut thin rounds of red onion--and then a few rounds of white, just in case. He _did_ set out the carton of radish sprouts, but he tore up some lettuce, too. He set out an avocado, simply because Steve seemed the type to want some on his sandwich.

He sliced up a thick, orange beefsteak tomato from the plant he was growing on his balcony. It warmed him, just a little, to be able to share something he hadn't just made, but that he'd _grown_. Something that was only alive because he'd cared enough to help it grow.

By the time Steve returned, fifteen minutes later, the kitchen island was covered in every kind of condiment Billy could think of, slices of every kind of vegetable he had in his fridge. He had his two loaves of bread out, despite the certainty that Steve had probably gone ahead and bought a new one. It was a mess, and Steve grinned at him when he saw it.

"Now _this_ is what I'm talking about."

"Yeah? Well _you_ can clean it all up then, princess," Billy teased, feeling a little easier with Steve close again.

He laughed, easy and happy.

Steve _did_ buy another loaf of bread--but insisted that he'd take it home with him because he was out. He dropped two bags of deli turkey into the mess, three bags of sliced deli cheese, and a bright, ripe Granny Smith. "So, I didn't know what you'd like, so I got some peppercorn turkey, and some honey roasted turkey. And then cheddar, colby jack and muenster."

"How can it be the perfect sandwich if you don't even know what goes on it?" Billy asked, chuckling.

"You'll just have to wait and see." Steve gave him another winning grin and shoved the bread at him. It was whole wheat, soft and sweet, and sturdy enough for a sandwich. The same brand he got back in Boston, when he and Max had scrounged up enough they could pretend to eat healthily for a week. 

" _Lightly_ toast some bread, please" Steve said, with a grin, and nudged him. "Go on, make yourself useful."

It might've hurt, had _anyone else_ said it. Might've lit a burst of shame in his chest, made him flinch. But Steve was _smiling at him_ , Steve was happy, Steve wanted to be there. 

Instead of igniting his anxiety, it made him _warm_. Made him chuckle. "Yeah, yeah. Go slice your fucking apple, Pretty Boy."

Steve laughed and moved to do just that, only to pause, blink a few times, and drop his head with a groan. " _Fuck._ I forgot the knives again."

It startled a laugh out of Billy. He gently pat Steve's shoulder as he passed, "Next time."

"Yeah, yeah. _Toast_."

Billy chuckled, but did as he was told, listening to Steve rustled around behind him. He went ahead and grabbed the two plates he'd managed to unpack, sat two slices of freshly toasted on each and turned back to his guest. "Alright, now what?"

Steve waved at the mess before them. "Now we make some sandwiches. _Duh_."

Steve chose dijon mustard and avocado slices, where Billy chose whole grain. Chose the honey roasted turkey and cheddar, where Billy preferred the peppercorn and a few slices each of the colby and muenster.

Steve liked a smidge of horseradish mayo across the top slice of bread, liked a few slices of bacon, some red onion and some apple. He liked a few slices of green pepper, a healthy amount of tomato, a few leaves of iceberg. He liked a handful of the salt and vinegar chips he'd bought--after he found Billy's stash of junkfood to be lacking--and a few baby carrots for a side. He turned his nose up at the pickled carrots, but dug out a whole dill pickle to munch on, too.

Billy liked his sandwich slathered in peppercorn dressing, liked an unhealthy amount of bacon, liked a few rings of pickled shallot and enough onion to put his breath off for the next week. He dutifully added a handful of sprouts, the last two tomato slices that Steve _didn't_ steal, and then snuck a few more bacon pieces for good measure. He filled the rest of his plate with apple and pepper slices, just to balance things out.

True to his word, Steve gathered up the jars and unused bottles, while Billy filled Tupperware cartons with leftover onions and vegetables. God, and it was fucking _nice_ , too. It was easy, brushing shoulders and nudging each other with elbows as they moved around each other.

"I fail to see how this is anything more than just a normal turkey club," Billy said, allowing Steven to push him down onto one of the waiting stools crowded around the island. He felt good sitting there, watching Steve flit about the kitchen, cleaning up the last of their mess. "And it's not even the same as yours! So tell me, what makes _this_ the perfect sandwich?"

Steve gave him another of those impossibly bright grins as he dropped into the stool across from him. He slid over a can of soda that Billy hadn't had in his apartment, either, grin turning cheeky and impish. "The company, of course."

Steve said it so _easily_ , like there wasn't a place in the world he'd rather be. Like _Billy_ was the kind of company he wanted to keep, the kind of man he wanted to be around. Like Billy could be anything close to _perfect_ , even if just for one moment.

He blinked against the sting in his eyes, looked down at the plate in front of him. 

Perfect. That was the word Steve had used, had been _adamant_ about using. _Perfect_. 

Billy was far from it. He _knew_ it, too. Had remembered that fact everyday of his life, for as long as he could remember. He was an asshole, a fraud. He was a real piece of shit, he _knew that_. He'd never be perfect, never be anything close.

But Steve looked at him like he was. Looked at him like he wanted Billy around.

Like Billy _could be_ perfect, maybe. Perfect for _him_.

He managed a small smile, met Steve's gaze for a few moments, and dug in.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back and we have feelings! next chapter might be another bit of a wait because it is Important, and i wanna make sure i get it all right. im gonna put up a timeline on tumblr at some point, i just haven't managed to get around to it, but this one takes place immediately after chapert 13.
> 
> speaking of tumblr.. as always, i have [one](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) that i use almost exclusively for complaining and dumbassery.

By the time he dialed her number for the third time, Billy was growing more and more despondent. But, _finally_ , she picked up after a few rings with a terse, “ _What?_ ”

"Hey, Buckles," he murmured, tucking the fuzzy throw a little tighter over his head.

" _Hargrove_ ," she said, stiff and cold. It was the tone--business like and stiff--that made him flinch, that hurt a hell of a lot more than the _name_.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, closing his eyes against the sting. "I shouldn't have--I'm _sorry_ , Robin. You didn't deserve that."

" _You're goddamn_ right _I didn't, asshole_ ," she snapped, loudly, and Billy flinched back from the phone again. Her voice was loud in his cocoon of blankets. " _What crawled up your ass this week, huh? You can't just say shit like that to me--and Heather and_ Max _, of all fucking people--and think you can get away with it_."

"Wasn't trying to get away with anything."

" _Yeah, that's why it's taken you this long to pull your head out of your ass and apologize,_ " she scoffed, and Billy could _hear_ her eyeroll. 

"I'm sorry," he said, again, softer than before.

" _No, you have to give me more than just that. What the hell is up with you?_ " 

"I saw Susan," he said, quietly, almost a whisper. "They were here, in Chicago. On Monday, after Nancy and I went to look at tables, I was walking toward Gino's, and I saw her. And--and she saw _me_."

On the other end, Robin was silent for a few moments, and then she let out a long breath. " _Oh._ "

"Yeah. I just… couldn't deal with it. Freaked out a little," he admitted, wishing he could bury his face further into the couch cushions. "Lost my mind."

" _I'd probably have lost my mind a little bit, too._ "

"I'm _sorry._ "

" _I know, it's okay_."

"It's _not_ , I know it's not, but thanks." He relaxed just a hair, a little bit of the tightness in his chest easing. "I missed you."

" _Missed you, too,_ " Robin admitted, and Billy felt the rest of the tension drain out of him in relief. " _Why didn't you_ say _anything?_ "

"Panicked. Wanted to pretend it wasn't happening," he mumbled, tightening the blanket over his head, despite there being no one around to hide from. "Haven't seen them since, probably won't. But, I just… it didn't go away, and--and then you wouldn't _look at me._ You never do that, even when you're pissed, and I didn't know what to do."

" _Oh, shit, I'm sorry about that._ "

"No, I deserved it."

" _No, you didn't, Bills,_ " she said, sighing. " _Fuck, I'm sorry._ "

"It's okay."

There was another sigh on the other end, but she didn't argue. " _Have you talked to Max, yet?_ "

"No. She'll figure out a way to blame herself," he murmured. "She's been talking to Susan the last year or so, and I know she feels guilty about it. I don't want her to feel guilty about _this_ , too."

" _Talk to Max_ " Robin said, firmly. " _Tell her what's up._ " _  
_

"I'm letting her cool off, first. I'll see her at brunch on Sunday, I'll talk to her then," he promised, hoping he could follow through. "I'm not gonna let her stew on it."

" _She's stewing on_ something, _alright_ ," Robin muttered. " _She's pissed_ _at you right now, too_."

"Yeah, but I'd rather her be angry at me, than feeling guilty for somethin' she couldn't have even seen coming," Billy argued, quietly. "I can take it, she doesn't need to."

There was a sigh from the other end. " _You gotta stop doing that, dumbass. She'll get angry you didn't say anything._ "

"Next time she will. The first time always catches her too off-guard to get _really_ angry," Billy said, shaking his head. " _Next time_ , if there is one, she'll get well and truly pissed."

Another sigh, this one unimpressed. It was the familiar sound of Robin gearing up for a tired argument." _Billy, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep putting all this responsibility on your shoulders and expect to stay standing._ "

"It's never failed me before," he muttered, a familiar line.

" _That's not gonna keep, and you know it,_ " Robin said, quietly. " _You can't do this forever. He's_ gone _now, Bills. It's time to let someone else take some of the load._ "

"But he _isn't_. Clearly he isn't. He was _here_."

" _All the more reason to_ tell Max _,_ " she said, firmly. " _She'll know what to--_ " Robin cut off, and Billy could hear a second voice in the distance and Robin's muffled reply. And then, " _Sorry about that_."

"Heather?" he asked, listening to Robin shuffle around. They were living together, had been since Heather had arrived back in Chicago a few months before. What had started as Heather crashing as she looked for a place had become _roommates_ , and Billy was still at a loss as to how they _hadn't_ figured out they were in love yet.

" _Yeah, we're gonna go check out some club she heard about. Drinks are supposed to be good, she wants to check out the competition_ ," Robin said, chuckling a little. " _I can stay, if you need me to. If you want--_ "

"No, no. I'm just gonna head to bed early," he said, shaking his head even though she couldn't see him. "Go have fun."

" _You sure?_ "

"Yeah, I'll be okay."

" _I'll see you Monday,_ " Robin said firmly, half promise and half demand. " _Okay? Bright and early?_ "

"Yeah, Monday."

" _Love you, you piece of shit_."

He laughed, felt his shoulders shake with it, felt himself loosen up with relief, felt himself relax with the warm familiarity. "You, too. I'm hugging you on Monday, whether you like it or not."

" _The hell you are_ ," she grumbled, but he knew she was lying. " _I'll see you soon, Bills. Get some sleep. Talk to your sister._ "

"Yeah, yeah, I will. G'bye, Buckles," he murmured. "Say hi to Heather. Tell her I'll--I'll call her tomorrow."

" _I will. Night, Billy._ "

Reluctantly, he parted with a soft _Good night_ and hung up, leaving his apartment quiet and dark and empty again.

He burrowed his head a little further into the couch cushions and hid a little more.

He'd ended up in a lump on the couch, not long after Steve had left, unable to look at the empty, Steve-shaped space he had left behind. He'd turned the lights off so he didn't have to see the empty apartment, and buried himself in blankets so it didn't have to see him in return.

It wasn't new, but it had been a long time since he'd needed to hide himself away like that. 

He was sure Robin had noticed. She was used to it, knew the familiar sound of a voice muffled and damped by a duvet. They'd had many nights hunkered down in his blanket forts years ago, when they'd still lived together. Even more nights spent having Skype calls from a cocoon of comforters when they were halfway across the world from each other. 

It might've been the only thing keeping her from well and truly yelling at him.

He sighed, and sat up, letting the blankets drop to his shoulders. He owed her so much. For keeping him sane, keeping him calm and settled. For being his friend, even when he didn't deserve one. _Especially_ those times when he didn't.

Whatever friends she had--those people from her past that she didn't ever talk to him about--he hoped they were better to her than he was.

  
  


He left the lights off when he finally rose and shuffled into the kitchen, blankets still wrapped around his shoulders. It wasn't cold in the apartment, but he felt a chill without them, like Steve had taken all Billy's warmth with him. 

It always felt like that, once Steve left.

But it was a bit of comfort to see a familiar square of light through his window.

He wasn't surprised to see Steve's lights on, but he _was_ surprised to see the man hard at work. Steve was busy, rushing back and forth from his stove. Measure this, whisk that, a puff of flour in his face as he stirred whatever it was a little too vigorously. 

It took him a moment to get it, what Steve was doing. To fully understand the familiar rhythm of his movements.

Pancakes. 

Steve was making pancakes.

On his own, alone in his apartment.

Billy dropped his hands to grip the counter, heart _swelling_ with pride in his chest and eyes prickling with tears.

 _Steve_ was making pancakes, making the recipe Billy had given him. He was doing it all on his own. And he didn't _appear_ to be panicking, not fully. Nervous, concentrating hard, but not dipping into the deep well of panic and anxiety Billy knew him to have.

It shouldn't have been a big deal, except that it _was_. It was _huge_.

Across the way, Steve took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself, and then gave a determined nod. He dropped a scoop of batter into the pan, and immediately jumped back like he was evading a wild animal. 

It made Billy laugh, the sound bubbling up out of him in delight.

Across the way, Steve paced, eyes never seeming to leave the pan on in front of him. But, for once, he didn't look seconds away from panicking. There was more determination in his expression than usual, a little more fire. 

But he still hefted the spatula like a shield and stared at the stove top like it would attack him. But Billy watched on as he went through the familiar motion of scooping up the pancake and flipping it.

Steve's expression immediately lit up, brighter than anything Billy could remember.

He looked up from the stove, a great big smile stretching his _so_ lips wide. His eyes were so bright Billy thought he could pick out the flecks of amber shining out from behind his flour-dusted glasses. He stared across the distance between them, brown eyes straining to seek him out in the night. 

For a few seconds, Billy _swore_ their eyes met. Swore that Steve could see him watching from the darkness. Could see the dim light glinting of the tears wetting his cheeks. Could see his own proud smile like some kind of beacon in the dark.

Across the way, Steve ducked his head. His smile went small and a little rueful. He shook his head, shook away whatever thought he might've had, and got back to work.

Helplessly, Billy wiped at his eyes.

Billy hadn't cried in so long. Not since the day he graduated high school and ran for the east coast as fast as he could manage--or, perhaps, the day Max had shown up at his door, lost and scared. What his mother had loved about him, nurtured in him, he'd pushed to the side. He'd learned not to cry, not to let a weakness like that show. Not to his father, not to his teachers, not to any boss he'd ever had. Not to anyone else he'd ever tried to love.

He'd learned better than to give anyone an ounce of power over him. To be cold and cruel; to batten down whatever tender pieces of him still lived, before they could be beaten down anymore than they'd already been.

And leave it to Steve _fucking_ Harrington to break whatever wall he'd built to hold it all back.

Leave it to Steve to wet his cheeks with joy and _pride_. 

Billy stayed put just to watch Steve work. Watched and laughed at his ridiculous celebratory muppet dance, once he took the first pancake from the pan. Watched him fall into a comfortable rhythm, pouring and flipping one pancake after another. Watched as the line of his shoulders relaxed into something closer to calm. Watched the curve of a proud, little smile across his lips.

Billy stayed long into the night, watching until Steve turned off the stove and packaged the food away. Until the counters were cleaned up and the dishes were done. 

Watched as Steve loitered for a few long minutes, lip caught between his teeth as he stared down at something in his hands that Billy couldn't see. Watch the little jump he gave as he came to a decision, spun on his heels and marched out of view.

Billy stayed put, just watching, until the apartment across the way finally went dark.

It wasn't until he wandered back out to the living room to grab his phone that he realized what Steve might have been waffling about for so long.

A message was waiting for him, something from Steve. No caption, just a photo. 

Just a tall stack of fluffy, perfect pancakes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one really put me through the ringer, jesus. boy howdy, when you make incredibly intentional decisions about things, but you've looked over every word so many times that you start to second guess EVERYTHING... 
> 
> um, as usual, you can join me on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where i sometimes interact, but mostly get distracted by wrestling and dnd.
> 
> **warning for some mentions of child abuse: there's not a lot that is explicitly stated, but there's some mention of specific injury. i tried not to be super graphic about anything, but i still wanted to give a little heads up
> 
> EDIT: the song playing is Wildflowers by Tom Petty
> 
> FURTHER EDIT: if you've been here before, i took out the references to gourmet makes/ba test kitchen because i SUPER wasn't comfortable keeping that in there after the everything. that's gonna be a hearty and emphatic nah from me for now. i hope the chapter doesn't suffer too much. <3

"Thirty minutes?" Steve asked, fiddling with the kitchen timer. It was the Death Star timer, the one that Max had given him a few months before, when he’d first moved to Chicago. 

He had a much larger collection, packed away somewhere, of the kitchen timers that Max had given him over the years. Most were just silly novelty gifts--fat chickens and condiment bottles and an ugly little toaster that popped up plastic slices of toast when the time ran out. It was a long-running joke between them. A timer had been the first gift she'd sent him, once he'd moved away from Boston. He'd complained about the oven in his rat trap apartment, how the clock didn't always work, and a few weeks later a package had arrived. An ugly, scratched, bright yellow pineapple shaped timer she'd found at a thrift shop. It was still his favorite, the only one he'd managed to actually unpack--though it hadn't managed to make it into the kitchen, yet. 

He'd given it a place of honor on his bedside table, next to the only photos he'd unpacked. He didn't have many out, just the crumpled, faded photo of his mother, hair wild and wind-swept, grinning brightly, a wild ocean at her back; Max, glowering and covered in flour, after losing the food fight she'd tried to start their first Christmas on the east coast; he and Robin, shit _wrecked_ and turned away from each other, pretending to hack and choke and vomit after they'd shared a New Years kiss; Heather, lit in neon barlight, throwing back three shots at once, at a going away party the night before he and Robin made for Paris.

He really hadn't unpacked much, yet. Just the most important things.

"Yep, thirty minutes."

The whole kitchen smelled _rich_ and savory. Like garlic and melted butter and cheese, rosemary and sage and nutmeg. The pan was safely in the oven and the rest of the dirty dishes were piled in the sink at his back.

"Alright, mac and cheese down," Steve announced, setting the timer aside. He turned back toward Billy, with an expectant look and his hands on his hips. "What's next?"

"I kinda… didn't really plan anything else for tonight," Billy muttered, cheeks going a little warm. He felt like an _idiot_ . He’d managed to plan every free moment of their last lessons, but he’d dropped the ball. _Again_. "It's been a long week."

Steve just nodded, expression open and earnest. His pretty brown eyes were wide and intent on Billy's. "Do you wanna talk about it now?"

" _Want_ is a strong word."

"I'll listen," he said, gently, and sat at the island, across from Billy. "If it makes it easier."

"It does," Billy said, and found that it was true. "I mean, I guess I owe you an explanation."

At that, Steve rolled his eyes and leaned heavily into the countertop. "You don't owe me anything, Billy."

"Not even an apology?"

"You already gave me one of those," Steve argued, waggling a finger at him. "Don't you dare apologize to me. Unless you didn't mean the first one, in which case, fuck you."

"I meant it," Billy assured him, quietly huffing out a little laugh.

"Then you really don't owe me a damn thing," Steve promised. "Just… start wherever you wanna start, okay?"

"What do you want to know?"

Steve shrugged. "Everything."

He said it simply, eyes bright and smile small and warm. Said it like it was the easiest thing in the world to want. Like he'd take--not just _everything_ Billy offered, but like he'd be happy with _anything_. If all Billy wanted to tell him was the weather forecast, he’d take it.

Billy dropped his eyes.

"You don't… know who I am, do you?" he asked, carefully, staring down at the speckled countertop. He traced shapes, pieces of blue and green and amber recycled glass, fitting together like some kind of puzzle. 

"Yeah, I do," Steve answered, simply, and Billy's head snapped up so fast that he got dizzy. "Your name is Billy, and you're my neighbor," Steve said with an easy smile. "You're a chef, and a damn good one. Must be a pretty popular one, too, if you can afford a place like _this_. You're a good teacher--even if you think otherwise. You love food. Not just--you love _making food_ , yeah, but you love sharing it more. It's… important to you. Sharing your food, sharing what you make with people.

"You're, uh, _protective_. You _care_. You care so _much_ , and so fiercely that it must hurt, sometimes," Steve said, quietly. He was still wearing that smile, eyes soft. He looked down for a few moments, then slowly reached out and covered Billy's hand with his own. He was _warm._ "I didn't notice it, really, until after you kinda… blew up," he said, with a small huff of a laugh, as he met Billy's eyes again. "How often you tried to, like, be _kind_. To be encouraging, and stuff. Even when I was too dumb to notice."

"You're not _dumb_ , goddamn it," Billy snapped, instantly, eyes narrowed.

Steve laughed, easy and soft. He shook his head and little, and dropped his gaze to their linked hands. "I'll--I'll try and believe you that I'm not _stupid_ , okay? You made some… _loud_ points, and you've been right about everything else, so I'm gonna try to believe you about _this_ , too. But, Billy, I'm a fucking idiot."

" _No_ , stop saying--"

"No, no, let me explain, okay? I play D&D with some friends. And I still don't entirely get it, but it's fun. That's what I would've been doing tonight, actually, if everyone had been available," he said with an easy shrug and a tiny laugh. "But, anyway, there's these skills you get scores for, that you add to your dice rolls, right? Like, for strength and charm and stuff. And there's also intelligence and wisdom, which sound like they should be the same, but they're _not_.

"Anyway, Dustin--he's like my little brother," Steve said, and then frowned. "Fuck it, he _is_ my little brother. He explained the difference to me, and I think it applies to me, and not just my character. _Intelligence_ is knowing that a tomato is a fruit," he said, giving Billy a pleased little smile. " _Wisdom_ is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad."

Billy couldn't have stopped his laugh if he'd tried. Not with Steve's pleased, self-satisfied look, the laughter in his tone.

"I guess I'm smart, sure, but I have no wisdom. No goddamn common sense. My perception score is zilch. I'm kind of a dumbass," Steve chuckled and gave Billy's hand a small squeeze. "But I'll try not to say it while you're around."

“You _are_ smart, though, Steve,” Billy said, firmly.

Steve scoffed, gave a playful smile and a little shake of his head. "There you go again, being nice to me. I know _that_ about you, too. That you’re incredibly kind--”

“I’m really not.”

“ _\--whether you admit it or not_ ,” Steve finished with a sly smile. “And you’re very bad at lying, too, Billy.”

Billy huffed out a little laugh, shook his head at the ridiculous man in front of him. 

“So, yeah, I know who you are,” Steve murmured, giving Billy’s hand another gentle squeeze. “The most important things, anyway.”

The kitchen was dim, light relegated to just the bulb above the island where they sat. It lit them up in soft golds and long shadows, made Steve’s eyes look dark as cocoa and dotted with chips of butterscotch. He could hear the quiet tick of the timer on the counter, hear the creak of the hot oven. If he strained enough, he could hear a siren’s wail down the street. Behind him, from his phone, Tom Petty softly sang _I have seen no other, who compares with you_. 

He sighed and looked back down, unable to meet Steve's gaze a moment longer.

"I'm not _nice_ ," Billy muttered, staring at their hands. At Steve’s fair skin and delicate hands against Billy’s California gold that had never quite faded, knuckles littered with silvered scars. Before Steve could argue, he reiterated, "I'm _not_. But I'm trying to be. Tryin' to be better than what made me."

Instead of arguing, Steve reached out, wrapped his other hand around Billy's. "Your parents?" he asked, quietly. "Is that what you meant before? When you said you were an expert?"

He nodded. "I dunno if you'll wanna hear this part, though."

"I told you, I want to know _everything_ , Billy," he murmured, squeezing Billy's hand between his own. "But I don't want to know it _enough_ to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm okay, I just… don't want to burden you with this."

"You're not a _burden_ , Billy, jesus," Steve snapped. "And you thought _I_ was bad."

"Sorry."

"Don't be _sorry_. You have no reason to be sorry," Steve assured him. "Just… maybe start with this week? Why you've been so out of sorts?"

"I, uh, saw a ghost from the past, I guess. My step mom. Saw her downtown, and she should never have been there. She and my dad, they're supposed to still be out in Cali. Not _here_ , you know?" He sighed and shrugged, "Kinda just set me off. Made everything else _worse_. To know that she knows where I am. Means he does, too. Means if I was just a little slower, he'd have seen me."

"A real piece of shit, huh?"

"Yeah, he was. Is, probably. My dad was… bad. To me, to my mom. Bad enough she had to leave. Bad enough that she ran so fast she forgot to take me with her," Billy said, glancing up to give Steve a rueful little smile. Pretty Boy was watching him, those big doe eyes intent and his brow heavy with concern. Billy looked away again, else he might shatter if he looked any longer. "I was young, eight. And she left me with him, never came back."

"She really just _left_ ? No nothing, just… just _gone_?"

"She left me with a pendant of hers, some saint of something-or-other. Like that was supposed to protect me," he muttered. He hadn't thought about it in years. Tried not to. "I don't remember if she ever said who it was, but my dad isn't Catholic. Never really stuck, I guess."

"You don't have it anymore?"

Billy shook his head. He tilted his head to the left, used his free hand to push his shirt collar aside and reveal the thin, silver scar at the bend of his neck. “He ripped it off of me, the day I graduated. The day I left.”

Steve gasped a little, rightfully horrified. The hands wrapped around his own tightened into a steel grip. 

"Yeah, but that was the end of it, at least," he said with a shrug. "Wasn't even the worst of it, really. It was just… the last of it."

Across from him, Steve blinked rapidly. He took a steadying breath and forcibly relaxed his grip on Billy's hand, but he didn't let go. "Where, um, where'd you go?"

"Boston. Applied to schools as far away as possible. Did well enough in high school that I managed to wrangle a pretty good scholarship, too."

"And how does one get a scholarship to culinary school?" 

"No idea," Billy chuckled a little, ducking his head. "I went for some generic business degree."

" _Really_? How'd you end up a chef?"

"Uh, couldn't really think of any business I wanted to open, I guess," he said, chuckling. "So, why not a restaurant? I'd always been good at food, and my little sister kinda pushed me into it. So I got myself to New York, got into a culinary program.”

"Was it a better fit than _business_?"

He laughed a little, shrugged. "Not always. I learned far more after I dropped out, once I got to work."

"What was so bad about it?" Steve asked, absently tracing shapes over the back of Billy's hand. "The only other person I know who went to culinary school dropped out, too. She never said why, though."

"I'm sure a lot of people have good experiences. I just happened to have a really shitty one."

"Do you regret leaving?"

"Not really. Seems to me, I learned better out in the world," Billy said, shrugging a little. "I met my best friend there and I don't think she had even half as terrible a time as I did, but she still walked out with me."

"And let me, guess," Steve murmured, an assessing look on his face. "You made a scene."

"Who, _me_?" he said, in mock offense, just to watch Steve laugh. He sobered though, because he _had_ made quite the scene. Almost got himself arrested for _assault_ on top of it all. But it wasn't so bad when he remembered Robin bandaging his knuckles and Heather plying him with cocktails. "I was a shit when I was younger," Billy sighed, scrubbing his free hand over his face. "I couldn't fight my dad, so I fought the rest of the world. And I kept that up once I started culinary school. I happened to get stuck with some real pieces of work that my dad woulda liked, and I just… suffered silently and tormented everyone else around me until I'd had enough. I punched an asshole instructor in the mouth and marched my ass out of there."

"Middle fingers held high?"

"Oh, you know it."

"What did you do after?" Steve prompted. He sounded curious, no judgement in his tone. 

"Started at the bottom, taking the shittiest dishwashing gigs at the swankiest places I could find. Worked my way up," he said, shrugging a little. "Managed to make a name for myself. Started working at some big name places in New York. Made my way to Paris for a while. London."

"Italy?" 

"For a little bit. None of them really stuck," he said, thinking back on every bridge he'd managed to burn along the way. "Got stuck with a lot of shit, didn't always get the opportunities I deserved. And, just my luck, I found more cocky old bastards than anything else."

"Drop more chefs than checks?"

Billy winced. "Yeah, a little bit."

Steve barked out a sudden laugh. "What, _seriously_?"

"I've been reliably informed that I have anger management issues," he chuckled. "But, in my defense, nine times outta ten, they deserved it."

"And what about that one time out of ten?"

He winced again, more regret than embarrassment. "Sometimes a person hits your trigger, and you react before you really have time to think about it. At the very _least_ , I tried to apologize to _those_ people."

"And that other ninety percent? Did they get apologies?"

“No.” He covered his face with his free hand and groaned. "No, they didn’t. I started a cooking show, thing."

Steve was quiet for a long moment, and Billy could imagine the questioning look on his face. Imagined his head tilted, brow furrowed, lips pursed. "I gotta say, I don't see a connection here."

"Basically… all those recipes I learned from those big, famous chefs I worked for? I rewrote them," Billy said, and dropped his hand back to the countertop. "Found ways to make them cheaper, easier. So people could, like, easily make them in their homes, instead of paying too much to some dick with an over-inflated ego."

"And I bet they didn't like that, did they?"

"No they did _not._ But I was already out of a job before that, and a whole lot of gossip kept me from getting a new one. So I turned to youtube, and did what I do best."

"Cook?" Steve guessed, teasing.

"No, that's like, the thing I'm second best at." He gave a little grin, smarmy and teasing. "I stuck it to the man, obviously."

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” Steve agreed, stifling a laugh.

"I _almost_ had it turned into a show on Netflix, too," he added, because he was a masochist. He’d given Steve a lot already, why not simply give him the rest.

"Seriously? What happened with that?"

"I took a long look at myself in the mirror, realized I had, like, three friends, and no one and nothing to fall back on if it didn't last. I was just an asshole who liked tearing people down, and just happened to be good in a kitchen," he muttered. "I have burned so many bridges in this business, that no one would hire me if it came to that."

"I'm sure that's not true," Steve said, squeezing his hand tight. "That can't be true."

"It _is_ , though," Billy insisted. "There are competition shows I've been asked to do, and had to pull out because _literally_ every one of the other judges refused to work with me. And not even just once, either."

"I think you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m _not_ being dramatic.”

“Are you sure?”

“Steve, I’m not _joking_ , or exaggerating or whatever. I'm scared to fucking _death_ of what will happen if this restaurant doesn't work," he argued, squeezing Steve's hand tight. The heat that had been prickling at his eyes, for what felt like _years_ , finally began to spill over. "If I fail, I've got _nothing_ to fall back on. It's just been… sneaking up on me, how _easily_ this could all go to shit. How much I'd deserve it if it _did._ "

"No, Billy, you don't deserve that," Steve said, firmly.

"Yes, I do. I--"

"Did you kill anyone?" Steve asked, cutting him off. "You did some dumb shit, I'll give you that, but did you _kill_ anyone?"

"I--no. Of course I didn't."

"Did you really _ruin_ anyone? Did you truly destroy their business, or their livelihood? Did you cause _any_ of these people to lose any actual money because of your show?" Steve asked, eyes intent on Billy's. "Or were you just being a nuisance?"

He wanted to be offended at being called a _nuisance,_ but he couldn’t exactly _argue_. 

But, he was certain it was _more_ than just that. Because he could admit that he’d been a little shit, could agree that it didn’t sound half as bad as he was making it out to be. But it didn’t change the consequences, didn’t change where he’d ended up. Didn’t change all the near miss lawsuits he’d been slapped with over the years. Didn’t change a damn thing. He’d made his legacy far too fast for him to outrun it--it had already overtaken him.

So, he lived with it. He got a book deal from people who wanted to capitalize on his controversy. Got shows because executives in an office somewhere wanted to capitalize on his popularity. He took everything that came his way in the hopes that he could move on and get better and _be_ better. But it was all the same shit. No matter how much he wanted to move on, he couldn’t. It was all anyone knew him for, all he’d done that anyone cared about.

The restaurant was his last chance--his _only fucking chance_ to build something for himself. To move forward from the years he’d spent being a smug, little prick. To build something that wouldn’t haunt him. And with every snide remark, every ask for an autograph or a _selfie_ , every cancelled event, every single reminder he was faced with was one step closer to losing all of it.

"The punishment has to fit the crime, Billy," Steve said, gently, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. "All it sounds like to _me,_ is that you were a cocky little shit with a chip on your shoulder. Sounds like you took the piss outta a bunch of old assholes who deserved it--and who didn’t really suffer all that much.

"It sounds, _to me_ , like the only real mistake you made was doing it all in front of a camera--and I wouldn't even call that a _mistake_. That doesn't sound like the kind of thing that warrants _ruin_.” In front of him, Steve looked fierce. His expression was serious and his eyes were wide and imploring. He squeezed Billy's hand _tight_ , like he could force Billy to believe him if he held on tight enough. "I know, believe me, _I know_ it feels wildly different in that pretty head of yours. I know that it feels like a mountain in front of you right now. But I promise you, it's just a hill."

"How'd you get to be so wise?" Billy asked, wiping at his cheeks.

Steve gave him another of those small smiles; a little sad, more than a little understanding. He lifted a hand up and swept his thumb beneath one of Billy’s eyes, and then the other. “A whole lotta time and therapy.”

Billy shuddered at the touch, leaned into it. Sagged into Steve’s hand when he pressed his palm flat to Billy’s cheek. Turned his face into Steve’s touch, into the thin delicate skin of his wrist, and just breathed in the familiar scent of him--rich and warm and spiked with sweet citrus, all spicy tonka and jasmine and bergamot. 

“You’re more than what you regret, Billy.” Steve offered a small, encouraging smile, "You're more than just the mistakes you've made."

He squeezed his eyes shut against a fresh sting. “How-how do you know?”

“I’ve made my own share of mistakes. I have a laundry list of regrets that I’m gonna carry with me for the rest of my life,” Steve murmured, pressing his thumb to Billy’s temple in a gentle rhythm. “But it’s not the most important thing about me. And I _promise you_ , this isn’t the most important thing about _you_. It’s just the most visible, that’s all.”

“It feels worse, somehow,” Billy whispered. "When you lay it all out, it seems so… _small_. But it sure feels fucking _awful_."

“I’m not surprised,” Steve assured him, tone just as gentle as his touch. “I can imagine how much it must fucking _suck_ to be chased by, like, tangible reminders of your past, and not just ghosts.”

“That what you got?” Billy asked, before he could stop himself. He raised his eyes to meet Steve’s again, raised his hand to grasp lightly at Steve’s wrist. Billy brushed his thumb over the back of the hand caught in his hold, felt the delicate bones and and the steady, persistent beat of his pulse. “Ghosts?”

He nodded, his smile small and mournful. “One or two. But I think that's a story for another time."

Billy nodded and turned his face back into Steve's hand, pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. "I'll listen. When you want to tell that story, I mean."

"I know." His smile turned a little brighter, a little sly. "You're _nice_ , remember?"

"No, I'm not."

"The more you say shit like that, the less I'm gonna believe you," Steve teased, but continued to gently stroke his thumb over Billy's cheek. “I meant it, though. Everything I said, I meant it.”

Billy huffed a little laugh and squeezed Steve’s hand tight. “Yeah, I know. I don’t think you even know how _not_ to be completely genuine. I might not _believe_ what you do, but I trust that you believe it.”

“So now you understand where I’m coming from.”

Billy paused to consider it, and then shrugged. “A little. There’s literal, tangible evidence that you’re smart. There are _hours_ of me being a piece of shit, just out there for the world to see.”

“Still sounds, to me, like you were just a kid with something to prove," Steve said, gently. "None of that shit really matters in the grand scheme of things. You're nice _now_. That-- _that_ matters, Billy. That’s important."

"I'm not nice," he argued. “I’m just _trying_ to be.”

“Same fucking thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

“It _is_ , so shut your damn mouth and deal with it.” Steve used his free hand to flick Billy’s forehead. “You really want to argue with me? I get _paid_ to argue. You don’t stand a _chance_.”

“And I’m a stubborn asshole,” Billy said. “You wanna be the pot, or should I?”

“I’ll be whichever you fucking _want_ , if you just admit that I‘m right.”

“I admit that you _think_ you’re right.”

Steve gasped, dramatic and affronted. “Excuse you, I _know_ I’m fucking right, I’m always right.”

“You weren’t right about being stupid.”

Steve laughed, loud and bright. The sound bounced and echoed off the empty walls of Billy’s apartment, filling the entire place to the brim with sunshine and _life_. “That was _different_!”

“Was it?”

“Yes!” He looked determined, but it was playful and teasing. Not even a fraction as serious as he’d been not even a minute or two before. He opened his mouth to continue his fight, when the timer went off behind him. Steve narrowed his eyes at Billy, as if the interruption was his fault, and gave his hand one final squeeze before he had to let go. He rose and turned toward the stove, throwing over his shoulder a threat of, “This isn’t even _close_ to over.”

Billy just laughed and hoped that Steve was right about that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it's been an eventful minute since last we spoke, friends. i got kinda depressed there for a bit, and after that it really didn't feel like the time to post stuff even if i could have written anything. too much going on that needed more attention. there's still a lot going on, but maybe somebody could use a few minutes of respite before getting back into the fray. <3
> 
> i joke a lot about chapters getting away from me, but BOY HOWDY. when i started blocking this chapter out way, way back when i first started writing this fic, this chapter was supposed to be 1) a lot shorter; and, 2) a lot sillier. it, as they say, got away from me. i sat down to finish this up, had an emotion, and then this all happened. there's so much to set up, friends. so, so much. next chapter WILL be shorter and lighter, istg.
> 
> as always, you can talk to me on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where everything is a lot quieter, angrier and less wrestling concerned lately. speaking of tumblr! my best friend made a [moodboard](https://samfosho.tumblr.com/post/619227126581919744/my-very-dear-friend-nagdabbit-is-writing-a) that's so pretty it makes me weep!
> 
> ALSO, i took the gourmet makes/ba test kitchen jokes out of the previous chapter. with the Everything, i reeeeaaaaalllllyyy didn't feel comfortable leaving it in. i didn't add any jokes to replace it, so you aren't missing anything. it just won't be there if you ever reread.
> 
> and finally: fuck fascists, defund the police, wear your masks, and, most importantly, take care of yourselves

"Well, look who decided to show his face." It was said without an ounce of humor, not a hint of a joke in her tone. Not teasing, but sarcastic and mean and angry, and he knew he deserved it.

He winced. "Hey, Max."

She glowered at him a moment longer, then rolled her eyes and kicked out the stool across from her. "Gonna act like an asshole again?"

"No, I'm not," he promised, quietly. He paused long enough to drop a kiss to the top of her head, and narrowly avoided an angry elbow to the gut as he rounded their small table. Billy gently squeezed Lucas' shoulder in greeting, and tried not to be offended by the younger man's usual flinch. "Sorry."

“Not good enough,” she snapped, and then turned her attention back to Lucas. They picked up their conversation right where they’d left off, almost as if there had been no interruption at all. Which was--fine. It was fine. He was being ignored and he deserved it, he knew damn well that he did, and it was all _fine_. But it certainly didn’t make it hurt any less.

He sighed and moved off toward the bar to get his usual drink order. Two, actually, just for good measure. He reckoned he would probably need at least a little bit of liquid courage to get through the day.

He liked a Bloody Mary bar, but mostly because he liked a Bloody Mary. Unlike Max, who liked to pile a salad in hers, he liked simple fixings. Two and a half shots of white whiskey from Tish, his favorite bartender. A chili salt rim, a few dashes of hot sauce, extra Worcestershire and celery salt. He liked a few stalks of pickled asparagus, rather than the handful of dill spears that Lucas preferred, and a slice or three of bacon. 

He raised a double salute to Tish, who returned it with a roll of her eyes and a poorly concealed grin. 

Once he and Max had made the place a regular destination, Tish had wordlessly turned his regular into a permanent menu item. The _That's How You Do A Bloody Mary_. A few patrons had finally got the joke and made the connection when they caught sight of him the week before, but she'd shut them down before they could interrupt brunch.

He liked her. Well enough that the joke made him laugh more than it made him cringe. If she ever asked for a photo or something, he'd probably give in without hesitation, but she'd yet to say a word to him that didn’t involve handing him back his credit card.

Max and Lucas were still going over plans when finally took the vacant seat at their usual, wobbly high top. _Travel plans_ , it sounded like. Right. Because there was a _reason_ that Max had called to have brunch two weeks in a row, even as mad at him as she was.

She was going to be gone for a few weeks, and then a few weeks more after that. Some of it for a vacation, back out to Boston to visit Lucas' sister and another friend of theirs. Most of it was for conferences and school stuff, things that went right over his head whenever she would try to explain it to him. 

All of it just seemed a precursor, at least in his mind, to a much bigger problem: that she'd be _leaving_ soon. He didn't like thinking about it. He didn't want to really even consider how, in just a year, she'd be off on her residency, probably further away than any of them really wanted to consider.

And they hadn’t _really_ talked about it, either. Mentioned it, that it _would_ happen, sure. But they hadn't actually sat down to really talk about it. That wasn't their _thing_.

Talking with Max--well and truly _talking_ about things that mattered, important things--was never an easy task. They didn’t do it when they were younger, just angry kids, and always at each other’s throats. Didn’t have the patience or trust for it. Didn't have years of practice that other siblings did.

When Max had found him again, they spent far too much time side-stepping big conversations and tiptoeing circles around each other. It had gotten easier, in increments, once distance and time had begun to soften each of their own fears. She’d shown up in Boston with a fading bruise and a hard-won understanding, and Billy had taken to her with a fierce sort of protectiveness that was new and startling for the both of them. But they still didn’t _talk_ , not until much later--and even then, not about what they _needed_ to talk about.

They could spend hours on end talking about nonsense. About dungeons and dragons, food and friends, books and movies and music. As long as it was nothing of consequence, they could talk for _days_. They could talk about Lucas, but never the days before introducing him to Billy. They could talk about Billy's partners--lasting though they _weren't_ \--but never what it was that ultimately drove them away in the end.

They didn’t ever have the _big_ conversations outright. They would either speak in circles and half-truths, or they’d end up in an ear-splitting shouting match. They tended to just skirt the _big_ conversations. About the show, about Billy’s actions, about the legacy he was leaving in his wake in the form of rumors and tabloids. About the future Max imagined for herself, Chicago and beyond.

But they definitely didn’t talk about California.

They didn’t talk about Neil or Susan or all the ways they’d ever let each other down. Didn’t talk about the nightmares he still had, or whether or not she had any of her own. They didn’t talk about his issues with authority, the constant push-pull of paralyzing fear and the desire to fight to the death that overtook him every time a voice was raised near him. Didn’t talk about how she got that bruise, why she’d run and never looked back. They didn’t talk about the panic attacks, but always they made sure to be there to pick up the pieces.

But they didn’t talk about any of it. She knew more than she let on, he was sure of that, but not a damn thing was said between them.

He was beginning to think that, perhaps, that was a mistake. That maybe it was time to start.

"Max, can I talk to you alone for a sec?" he asked, quietly, interrupting their chatter.

Because that would be an easy start. She could yell at him for being an ass, he would explain himself, and back inside they would get to carry on with the day. She would tell him about her conferences, and he would nod and pretend he understood. He might talk about the menu, or even his book-- _i_ _f asked_. He might even get Lucas to relax enough to laugh at one of his jokes again. 

It was _supposed_ to be the pleasant sort of day they were used to, even if the start was a little shaky.

Except that he was halfway out of his seat before he realized that it was Lucas storming off toward the door, and not Max. He blinked at the man's back, watched him stalk away, didn't quite understand what had happened.

"Oh, come _on_ , Billy," Max snapped, making to stand and chase after him. “Really?”

And he wasn't entirely sure that he deserved the blame on _that one_ , but also wasn't entirely sure he _didn't_. “No, no, _stay_ ,” he pleaded, and pushed her back down into her seat. “I'm sorry, I’ll bring him back. Just--just hang tight, okay? _Please_?"

She sent him a glare, dark and stormy, but she stopped moving, "You have _five minutes_."

Outside, everything was bright and _hot_ and disorienting. The sidewalks weren’t bustling and busy, but Lucas was moving fast enough that it took Billy a long moment to figure out which direction he’d even gone. “Hey, wait up!” he called out and jogged after the younger man as he continued to march down the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m letting you and Max have your little talk,” Lucas yelled back over his shoulder. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

“No, no, that’s--I mean, _yeah_ , but not for very long. I just needed to talk to Max for a second, that’s all.”

“So what am I supposed to do, huh? Walk around the block a few times while you and Max have a heart-to-heart?”

"No, you're supposed to sit inside in the nice, cool air-conditioning, and order another round and some shitty fired food on my tab,” Billy said, trying for some kind of a joke. It didn't work.

Lucas rolled his eyes, tossed his head so hard with it that Billy didn’t even have to see his face to know he’d done it, and kept on walking. "What's so bad you can't say it in front of me?"

"Nothing, _really,_ it's just that--"

"It's just that it's _me_ , right?"

"No, _no_. It's not because you're _you_ , Lucas," Billy snapped. It was a little louder, and more a little harsher, than he'd intended, but he powered on. "It's because you're not _Max_ , okay? Jesus, if I had a problem with _you_ being here, you'd've known _long_ before now."

Lucas froze, and slowly turned toward Billy. He was _angry_ , that much was clear. He and Max had started growing far too similar as time dragged on, at least where _rage_ was concerned. All calm and controlled--right up until it _wasn't_. It was all in the eyebrows. "What about my face right now says that I _don't_ already know how much you have a problem with me?" he asked, slowly.

Billy winced, and sighed, and raised in hands in peace. As much as he wanted to argue, he doubted it would do any good. "Please, will you just hold down the fort while I let Max yell at me out here for five minutes? I like having you here, I don't want you to _leave_."

“But you don’t want me involved in whatever this is,” he snapped, harsh and angry. “You don't trust me enough to tell me what’s been eating you the last couple weeks. You’ve never trusted me enough to talk about _anything_ when I’m around.”

"You're right, you're _right_ ; I don't want to tell you _anything_ right now," Billy admitted, and Lucas rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Then what am I even here for, huh? Kinda hard to get to know Max's brother when he's an emotionally constipated _asshole_. So what's the _point_?" he demanded, eyes hard and jaw tense. "You won’t let me in, won’t talk to me about jack shit. _God_ , every time I have to fight to get _anything_ out of you. You've known me for _five years_ , Hargrove."

“And you’ve made it perfectly fucking clear, for all of them, that the only reason you put up with me is because of Max,” Billy growled back, hands on his hips. “And, sure, those first few times you showed up in our Skype calls, you were just Max’s boyfriend. But then you made her laugh. At a time when we were still cautious and careful around each other, you made her laugh. That was a time when I couldn’t even have _dreamed_ of doing that. As far as I was concerned, just for that, you were here to stay.”

“That sounds like a load of sentimental bullshit that _you_ aren’t exactly known for,” Lucas grumbled, but his resolve was slipping.

He sighed again, his shoulders dropping with the force of it. Because that wasn't exactly _wrong_ , either, and for the exact same reasons they had even begun arguing in the first place: because he didn't know how to actually talk about shit when the world wasn't ending. “I _do_ want to tell you all this one day, but--”

“ _Bullshit_.”

" _But_ I don't want to tell you this shit right _now_. Christ and _a half_ , Sinclair, it’s not because you're _you_. It's not because I don't like you, or trust you, or any shit like that, it's…" He broke off with a sigh, the fight leaving him in an instant. "I _know_ I do a bad job of showing that I give a shit, but you aren’t any better, asshole. I _know_ you don't like me even half as much as I do you. Less than that, even. You’ve made it plain as day that you don’t like me, I’d have to be a fucking _idiot_ to miss it. But, I don't want to… if there's even a shadow of a snowball's fucking chance that we can be friends one day, I'd rather tell you all my shit when you're already in too deep to cut and run."

"So you're making an effort. Sure, that’s great, I can appreciate that. We’re all very fucking _proud_." Lucas gave him an expectant look, eyebrows raised and waiting. "So, why are you making an effort _now_? Because this shit is coming out of left field."

"Max is gonna be gone, soon. She'll be off doing her residency and shit and she's not gonna be here. She’ll be off somewhere saving lives and kicking ass, and us two sad sacks’ll be left behind, watching her figure out how to save the world," Billy said, tossing his hands, helplessly. "And as proud as I am of her, I fucking _dread_ that day, because even if you're not following her, I'm scared that you're gonna leave me behind, too. It was easy to just… _coast by_ before. It was easy to take what I could get and be happy with it. To pretend everything is fine. To pretend that I'm _not_ afraid that she'll take you with her."

Lucas deflated a little more. He let out a long sigh, swiped a hand over his face, gave Billy a long look. "I'm scared of her leaving, too, man."

"I _know_ you are. Because you can't know for sure how far she'll go, or if she'll even want to come back.”

At that, a little more of the fight left Lucas’ expression. He glanced back toward the bar entrance, like he expected her to be waiting there, glaring at the both of them--and it wouldn’t have been entirely out of the realm of possibility. He turned back to Billy, and nodded, "Yeah, and I'm not asking her to, either."

"I know you won't. You wouldn't do that."

"You think you know me, huh?"

"No, I don't. _Obviously_ I don't. I'm not great at, you know, _people_. But that's why I asked Max to keep inviting you: because I want to _try_. You're here because I wanna know how your internship is going," Billy said, quietly. "You're here because I wanna know how your little sister likes her classes. I wanna hear about fucking--Dungeons & Dragons, and that Mike fucker that Max likes messing with, and all the drunken shenanigans you two get into that she'd be too embarrassed to tell me about. 

“I wanna know if you ever figured out that cookie recipe I gave you, what you'd want for a birthday dinner--if we ever make it far enough that you'd even want to involve me _at all_ \--and the things that you love enough to talk about them the way Max talks about horror movies,” Billy said, hoping that the younger man would listen to him, would finally trust him. "Max brought you once because she wanted you here. She brought you _back_ because I wanted you here, too."

Lucas watched him warily, but his expression had begun to soften. "What's my sister's name?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.

"Erica," Billy answered, because he _did_ pay attention. "She's smarter than you and she knows it--and she knows _you_ know it, too. She's going to school for engineering, out East. You'd never say it to her face, but you're very proud of her."

"How would you even _know_ that?"

"You use complaining about her as an excuse to brag."

Lucas gave a startled, little laugh, shaking his head at Billy in disbelief. 

"I _do_ listen when you talk, even if you aren't talking to me," Billy said, quietly. "I asked to talk to Max alone because she knows my shit already, even if we don't talk about things the way we should. I've got half a lifetime of shared trauma with that little brat in there."

"And I don't," Lucas said, nodding, and Billy scoffed.

"And I don't have the history that you and Max do, either. I don't know the half of what brought you two together, because she hasn't told me. Because as close as we are, this _thing_ is still--it's fragile. She's my sister, and I would burn this city to the ground for her, but we don't talk about the things we should. I'm trying to get to know you, but I'm still getting to know her, too," Billy finished, weakly. He sighed and stepped closer and reached out to hold Lucas by his shoulders. "I like you, Sinclair."

"You really gotta work on your delivery, man, because it sure could use some work."

“I gave you my _secret_ chocolate chip cookie recipe. I don’t know how I could have been any clearer than that,” he joked and Lucas glowered, but didn't try to pull away. Billy chuckled, a knot untwisting in his belly. He gently pat Lucas' shoulder, then dropped his hands again. "Yeah, yeah. I get it, I'm working on it."

“ _Work harder,_ ” he said and gave Billy a dry look before he turned to head back into the bar. “I’ll go get Max. You have ten minutes before I order a round for the bar on your tab.”

"Hey, wait a minute. For the record, because I know I’m bad at saying things, and even worse at expressing them," Billy said, stopping him with a hand on his wrist. He met Lucas’ eyes, willing the other man to _understand_. "But, I'm saying it _now_ , plain and clear: you're important to me, too. Because of who _you_ are, not because of what you are to Max."

Lucas studied him a long moment, almost like he was seeing Billy for the first time. Finally, he nodded a little, and extended a hand. "Lucas Sinclair," he said, his grip strong and secure. "Broke law student, level 16 ranger, and kinda in love with your sister and her lack of self-preservation."

Billy laughed, but eagerly returned the handshake. "Billy Hargrove. Disgraced chef, World's Okayest Brother, and desperately in need of a good therapist if you know anybody."

Lucas laughed, losing a bit more of the tension he'd carried since the day they'd first met. "Good to meet you, I guess."

“Yeah, you, too,” he said, then flashed a grin. "Feels like I've known you for years."

At that, Lucas groaned and pulled fully away with a roll of his eyes. "Jesus, _and_ you make bad jokes, too. Why am I only finding this out _now_?"

"Because I'm an emotionally constipated asshole?" Billy suggested, chuckling a little when Lucas gave him an unimpressed look. "Talking _to people,_ about _things_ , is not remotely my strong suit. I'm trying, I really am. I swear that I am."

“Might I suggest, oh, I dunno… _doing it more often_? _Practicing_? This once every six years shit has gotta stop.” He lifted an eyebrow at Billy, “Even if you’re bad at it, I’m willing to give you points for trying. Not _many_ , but a few.”

“I will,” he promised. “I _will_ try.”

“And you know you can talk to us about the _good_ things, too,” Lucas said, meaningfully. “This heart-to-heart shit doesn’t have to happen exclusively when things are bad. All that shit you want from me? You gotta return it, man.”

“I will. Might have to kick me a couple times to get me into gear, but I’ll try,” Billy promised, sincerely. “I only asked to talk to her alone because she already knows my shit. Hell, she lived through half of it. She already knows where I’m coming from, and I don't have to relive it all just to get her up to speed.”

Lucas spent another long moment studying him, before he nodded his understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I get you, finally.”

“Yeah? That mean you’re gonna stick around?” Billy asked, hopefully.

He nodded and offered Billy a hint of a smile. "But I'm ordering fried pickles and you can't stop me."

Billy took the offered thread and clung to it as tight as he could manage. 

He _pouted_ at Lucas, gave him the saddest eyes he could manage. All fluttering eyelashes and wobbly chin, "Can you _please_ order hot wings, too? For _me_? Your new best friend?"

"Don't give me that look," Lucas said, and took a horrified step back. "That's--no, that’s illegal. Put that away, you're not allowed to make that face ever the hell again."

"Is that a yes?"

"Turn _that_ ," he grimaced and struggled to tamper down his smile, and waved at Billy's face, "whole situation off, and I'll think about it."

"With blue cheese?"

“ _Ew_ , no.”

“Hey, I’m about to have my whole ass verbally handed to me by five feet of hellfire, the _least_ I deserve is shitty hot wings and blue cheese dressing,” Billy said, somehow keeping a straight face as Lucas sputtered out a laugh. “ _If_ I survive.”

"Yeah, sure. _If._ " Lucas was still chuckling as he turned to walk away. Over his shoulder, he called out, “I'll send her out, but you’re on your own for the rest of it. What kind of flowers do you want at your funeral?”

“Fuck, man, I dunno,” he laughed. “Just stick a fistful of dandelions in a whiskey bottle and call it a day.”

Lucas laughed, loud and clear. He shook his head at Billy in exasperation, but he was still grinning as he pushed back inside. It was a start.

  
  


Billy had been pacing the sidewalk for close to three minutes before Max finally pushed outside. Three very _long_ minutes. Three very long minutes, stuck out in the heat and sticky humidity of an early Midwest summer, that had him seriously considering a sudden--and permanent--move to much drier climes.

"You could just come back inside, _asshole_ ," Max announced as she stepped out into the daylight. She marched toward him like she was marching toward a fight. "I dunno what sort of magic you worked on Lucas to get him on your side, but it’s too goddamn hot out to be stingy about secrets."

"I know and I'm _trying_ ," Billy said, bracing himself, though he knew she wouldn't swing at him. "I just wanted to talk to you alone about _this one_."

"You had _all week_ to talk to me!"

"And I didn't want to talk about this over the phone," Billy said, gently. He gave her half a smile, tried for a joke. "I wanted to apologize to your ugly, little face in person."

She wasn't impressed, _clearly._ She crossed her arms over her chest and _waited_ , glaring daggers at him all the while. “Well? I don’t have all day.”

He deflated a little more. "I _am_ sorry. I should never have snapped at you like that. You didn't deserve that."

"You already said that.” She lifted her eyebrows, expectantly. “So, what else you got, huh? Gonna tell me why you couldn’t just say what you needed to inside? Tell me why we can’t have this conversation in front of Lucas, maybe? Tell me what crawled up your ass this week? Why you were such a shit to _Robin_ , too? Why you can’t seem to stop yourself from _breaking things_?”

"I saw them," he said, wincing a little at the _idea_ of them being close, though the moment had long since passed. "I saw Susan. _Here_. Just… walking down the street, not even a block up from the restaurant. And she saw _me_ , too."

And, alarmingly, Max simply gave him a little shrug. She nodded, like it wasn't _news_. Like it hardly mattered. Like it hadn’t been completely earth-shattering and heart-stopping and world-tilting at the time. "Mom lives in Oak Park, now," Max said, simply, and Billy's breath skidded to a stop in his chest. 

Because Oak Park wasn’t days and hours away, wasn't a different timezone, wasn't _safe_ . It was practically Billy's _backyard_ , it was so goddamn close. And Max had _shrugged_ , which meant they’d probably been that close from the _start_. Which meant he wasn’t _safe_. He stared at her, knew he must have looked wild-eyed and crazed, and couldn’t bring himself to care. His hands were shaking, and he could barely remember a time when they _didn’t_. "They live in _Oak Park_?" 

Max seemed to finally catch his panic then--maybe in the shake of his voice or the fearful look on his face and or the shallow, panicked breaths catching in his throat. Her expression immediately eased and she reached out for him. "Oh no, _no_ Billy, _Mom_ lives here," she said, interrupting his panic. She gripped his wrist with both hands, as if she thought he might try to run. " _Just_ Mom. She lives here _alone_. She left him. For _good_."

And _that_ was… something. It was good--it was good for _her_. And it was _unexpected_ , but it was good. And it was a _relief_ , at that, to know that she was there alone. That Neil hadn’t followed. That, had he walked on and met her on the street, he would have been _fine_. He could have kept walking.

And it was _such_ a relief that his knees could hardly take it, and he sank down to plant his ass on the sun-baked sidewalk.

Max followed and immediately ducked beneath his arm and wrapped him in a hug, muttering unnecessary apologies into his shoulder. She squeezed him tight, until his ribs ached and his lungs burned and his heart slowed in his chest--and then she held on a little more.

“I’m sorry,” Max whispered once she eventually pulled back from the hug. She settled back heavily next to him, knees pulled up to her chest as they each leaned back against the bar's brick front. "If I thought you'd run into her, I would have said something else. She was probably just going to her lawyer’s office. She doesn't really like coming into the city all that often, otherwise. I didn't think there was a chance you'd even notice her."

"It's okay. I’m not angry at _you_ , or anything like that. I know you would have given me a heads up if you thought there was a chance in hell that I’d need it,” he said, and watched her deflate in relief at his side. “It was just…”

“A shock?”

He huffed a little laugh, and knocked his knee against hers. “That’s a word for it.”

“God, Billy, I’m _so sorry_ ,” Max insisted again, and slumped into his shoulder. “I should have told you. You deserved to know.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be okay. I mean, I know we don’t really talk about Susan and--and Neil and everything else. I shouldn’t just… expect you to give me updates on her life.” 

“I _should have_ , though. This was important.” She sounded _determined_ , and he could picture the set of her jaw and furrow of her brow where it was hidden against his shoulder. “Is that what did you in this week? Seeing Mom?”

"Partly. I haven't really been… dealing well, the last couple weeks, as it is," he muttered and dropped his head to rest atop hers--and ignored her snort and mutter of _Try years_. "Just the pressure of getting the place completed and ready to open, all the stuff with the show, writing another book--it’s all just been mounting, and _growing_ , and I haven’t taken any time to _deal_ with any of it. And seeing her so close to the restaurant like that, _in my space_ , I just… lost my mind a little. Everything I've been trying to forget crawled back up and it all just _spiraled_ right out of my head and… It was a bad few days."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, then sighed. “Just--you could have just said that you saw her. Why didn’t you?”

"Have you _met me_?"

At that, she snorted again. The sound turned into a tiny, relieved laugh. "Fair point. Are you _okay_ , though? Really?"

"I'm getting there," he said, truthfully. Mostly. _Slowly._ "I'm _trying_ to be better at this--at being an actual adult and _saying things_ when they need to be said--but sometimes that asshole in the back of my head still gets in my way. But I didn't run away this time, remarkably. I'd call that growth."

"Another very good point," she conceded, nodding. “Bet you really wanted to, though.”

“I was ready to move back to Florida just to get away,” he joked, but it wasn't that far off. He might have walked away from her--his strides quick, but steady--but he'd _run_ the moment he'd turned the corner and out of sight. He'd considered just _driving_. He'd considered just getting on the I-94 and just getting the fuck _out_.

But then he remembered Max, and all the promises he'd made her. Remembered the shell of a restaurant that still needed filled. Remembered Robin and Heather, who were relying on him. He remembered _Steve_.

"I'm _sorry_. I really am. I was having a shit week, and I took it out on everyone that I care about," he muttered, and slung an arm around her shoulders to pull her tighter against his side. "I'm trying to get better about talking when shit goes off the rails. I'm failing, _clearly_ , but I am trying."

"Can you try just a little bit faster next time?" Max asked, reaching up to squeeze at Billy's wrist. "I really don't like being mad at you. It's not fun anymore."

"I will." He ruffled her hair with one hand, offered up a pinky to her with the other. "Promise."

She didn't laugh or chuckle at the childishness of the gesture. Her expression softened instead, something a little bit tender, a little bit sadder.

They only ever brought out the pinky swear when things were _big_. 

When Billy had moved to New York, left Max in Boston with her med school, and she'd made him promise to call every chance he got. When Max visited Susan for the first time, just the year before, he'd made her promise to stay _safe_. When Billy ran from London--and Miami _and Los Angeles_ and everywhere else in between--that he'd find something, he'd _do something_ , that he'd find somewhere to settle down and stay put and stop running. When she transferred to a school Chicago and she'd promised it wasn't _just_ for a boy. When she promised that Chicago wasn't so bad in the winter, that it was warmer than it looked, that it would be less lonely.

After his last big meltdown, after the last bridge burning, after he-- _after_ , she'd made him promise to _stay_.

She chewed on her lip a moment, then hooked her pinky around his and held on tight. She sagged back into his side, digging her forehead tight against his shoulder. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

They stayed like that for awhile, ignoring the strange looks from passersby, the sticky heat, the rough brick against their backs. He could feel sweat dampening his hairline, knew Max must have felt the same, but neither of them were ready to move.

“So." Max tucked a little further into his side, pinkies still linked, “What else is new?”

He snorted on a laugh, but what the hell? He said he was _trying_. Trying to talk about _things_ with the people he cared about. And Lucas had said it himself, not ten minutes before: he was allowed to talk about the good things, too. Maybe it was time to start, finally.

"I, uh, met someone."

"Tell me more right now," Max said, immediately, and spun herself around to _stare_ at him.

"It's not _anything_ , yet," Billy said, chuckling, "but I think we could get there. Eventually. _Maybe_. I'd like to bring him sometime, if that's okay? I think you'd like him."

"Tell me about him right now," she demanded, eyes wide as she gripped at his forearm with both hands. "Everything, Billy. _Everything_."

He laughed at her intense kind of enthusiasm. "Not yet, not 'til I know where I stand with him."

“Remember, he’s gotta make it past me.”

“You are _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, allowed to shovel talk him,” Billy said firmly. 

"You gave Lucas a shovel talk."

" _Barely_. All I told him was that I would provide an alibi for you if you ever need it, that's hardly a shovel talk."

Max snorted on a laugh and gave him a shove. "Asshole."

"Buttface."

"Cum dumpster."

He threw his head back in a laugh, skull knocking against the rough brick they sat against. "Dick-infested knob goblin," he threw back between giggles, and didn't mind one bit the pain of Max's knuckles in his ribs--not when she laughed _like that_.

" _Tell me about him_ ," Max demanded, again, and shook him for emphasis.

“He’s sweet, really," Billy began, once he'd settled. He paused, a moment. Thought of Steve, how to explain him to his little sister. How to put that sweetness and kindness into words. How to accurately describe the exact shade of brown of his sparkly fucking, Disney-drawn, doe eyes. How he seemed to jump heart first into everything he did. How fucking _good_ it felt to hug him, and hold him close. Just how much he felt like _home_. "He's far kinder than I deserve, if I'm honest. Compassionate, selfless--a lot more than I think he ever lets on. He’s funny and he’s playful, and he's got a fire in him as bright as yours. He’s way, _way_ too good for me. I mean, you'll spend five minutes with him, you’re gonna be giving _me_ the shovel talk, honestly. He’s just--he's so fucking _lovely_. He’s absolutely lovely.”

“Oh, _wow_. You didn’t even mention how hot he is, or anything.” Max stared at him for a few long moments, eyes boring into the side of his head. “You’re _gone_ on this guy. Like, completely and entirely fucking _stupid_ for him.”

He thought about it for a long moment, considered the implications of it all, and then nodded his agreement. “Ass over tea kettle.”

“Holy shit.”

He nodded again. “Holy shit.”

At that, she laughed at him, loud and obnoxious and just about the best thing he’d heard all week. She shoved his shoulder a little as she pushed to her feet. She was grinning, lighter and brighter than she'd looked when he arrived. Max held a hand out to him, hauled him back to his feet, “Come on. I think you could use a drink.”

"I didn't drive today," Billy said in agreement. "Let's get me completely day-drunk while I reckon with the enormity of my emotions."

Max laughed again, loud and happy, and she wrapped him in a tight half-hug as she dragged him back into the ill-lit bar.

Back at their wobbly, well-loved table, Lucas had indeed ordered the fried pickles he'd threatened Billy with. But he _had_ ordered hot wings, too. Billy clasped Lucas’ shoulder again, and the younger man, for once, didn’t flinch beneath his hand.

"So," Max began, pleasantly, and it should really have tipped him off that something terrible was about to happen. "Tell us some more about your new boy toy."

It was unfortunate, really, that Billy had chosen right then to take a drink. And it was even _more_ unfortunate that he’d chosen to wear a white shirt to a Bloody Mary bar with his absolute _bastard_ of a little sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone who sticks around for my inconsistent updates! you all mean the world to me! <33


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i'm back a little sooner than usual! i hope this chapter finds you all well <3 this chapter wasn't on my original draft of this fic, it just sort of sprang forth fully formed and i figured we could all use a little bit of silliness and comfort. i hope this one gives everyone a good laugh for a few minutes at least <33

He stood in the kitchen doorway for a few long moments, trying his damnedest to look as remorseful and contrite and _sad_ as he actually felt. And when that got no reaction, he tried to make her laugh. He shuffled and scuffed his feet, batted his eyes, jutted out his lower lip. He lifted a hand in a bashful sort of wave, "Hey, Buckles." 

Robin didn't move or answer for an annoyingly long time. She sat on the stainless counter, arms crossed and face blank. She _stared_ at him, expectantly. She let him stand there and squirm in discomfort, before she finally rolled her eyes and opened her arms and said, "Come here and stop looking so goddamn pathetic."

"It's not just a _look_ ," he muttered, and threw himself into the hug, hard enough to damn near topple them both over. "I'm sorry."

"I know, you great big dumbass. I know."

"I promise to try not to do that again," he mumbled into her shoulder, probably squeezing her a little tighter than she really wanted. 

She sighed and held him just as tight in return. "You _better_. I don't like being mad at you. It's bad for morale."

"I'll try to stop giving you reasons, then."

He went easily when she pushed him back. "Just _talk to us_. That's all you have to do. You can yell it and scream it and do whatever you need to do to get it out. But just… don't bottle it all up. What's left of _him_ can get to it if you keep it all up here," she said, tapping at his temple.

"I will."

"You _better_." She gave him a long, serious look, before she softened a little. She lightly shoved his shoulder. "Alright, enough _mush_. Time to get to work."

He gratefully took the offered out, and leaned back against the counter next to her knee. "Okay, what do we still have to do?"

"We have to finalize the menus and get them off to the printer, hire and train staff, get the fucking inspector in here, get the dining room installed, lights installed, pickup the dinnerware orders, and get the walk-in stocked and ready to for business," Robin said, ticking off her fingers. "Is that it?"

He stared at her, incredulous. "What do you mean _is that it_?!"

She laughed at him. She had the audacity to actually _laugh_. Head thrown back, hand to her heart, actually _laughed_ . "It's not _that bad_ , worry wart."

"Not _that bad_?! Do you even _hear_ yourself?"

Robin just rolled her eyes and flicked his forehead. "Heather has some people in mind that she wants to work the bar, Nance can get the waitstaff in order faster than you can blink and Jon already offered to layout the menus--with the Friends & Family Discount, of course."

"Oh, _of course_."

"Hop says he'll be up for install on the eighth, Heather wants to test her drinks menu after the new hardtop is installed, so we can get Jon the finished list after that."

"Right, and Nancy got us some good supplier contracts already, and a couple contacts for the specialty items," Billy listed off, relaxing a touch. It didn't seem so daunting with it laid out in front of him, didn't seem so terrifying to know that they had _help_. "Lighting?" 

"Hop says the kids have some stuff in the works," Robin assured him, nodding. "If it's not ready by the time he is, it won't be long after. They'll be in on Wednesday to look around and make sure they can actually get it set up the way they're thinking."

"And I'm gonna bet we'll need an electrician in, too," Billy grumbled. 

Robin just waved him off, "They got a guy. He'll be in, starting Friday, to make sure the wiring is actually up to code. And he'll be in to help with the actual install. And Will even offered to repaint if it got too crazy."

"And kitchen staff?"

"I put an ad out last week and I've already got a stack of resumes to look through. I'll start calling people in, week after next." 

"That… sounds a lot more reasonable when you break it all down like that," Billy muttered and sagged back against the counter. "That's, what, three weeks before Hop gets here? So, _at least_ three weeks before the menus are done and off to the printer."

"And we've both finalized our sections, and I've already sent that off to Jon so he can get started. He'll send you over some samples to decide on, so all he'll have to do is put in Heather's drinks and off it goes," Robin said, nodding. “Nance has orders ready to go. Heather and I will do the runs to get dinnerware and the last of her glasses next week."

"Huh. So I guess that _is_ it."

"Yup." Robin popped the _p_ and hopped herself back onto her feet. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"Get started on a lesson plan to train the kitchen staff?"

“No, Silly Billy, what that _means_ is that you’re gonna take _a fucking break_ ,” Robin laughed. She pinched his nose and gave his head a little shake. “ _Someone_ has a book to write, and it sure as hell ain’t _me_.”

He groaned. The book. Right. _Great_. Just exactly what he wanted to work on. “Do I have to?”

“When is your first draft due, exactly?”

In three months. He winced. "Six months."

"My point exactly. You got shit to do, and you might as well do it _now_ , while you've got some time." She flicked his forehead again to emphasize her point. "You've been going five miles a minute since we started this, you _need_ to take a minute to slow down."

"I don't think I know _how_ to slow down."

Robin sighed, then gently smacked his hip. "Alright, shitstick, sit down and shut up. We need to have a little Come to Jesus."

"I'm an atheist," he grumbled, but dutifully hopped up to take her spot on the countertop. There was no point arguing, there never was.

"I _know_ you're scared," Robin said, and reached up to grip his shoulders tight. "You don't have to put on a brave face and pretend that you're _not._ That's never worked for you before; I can see right through you and you know it. But you won't be alone this time. I'll be _right here_. And so will Heather. And so will Max and Lucas. Hell, now you even have Nancy and Jon, too."

He made a face. "Do I, though?"

"Yes," she said, and waved a had dismissively, "The point _is_ , you don't have to take all this on yourself. You aren't alone anymore."

He sighed a little and nodded. He bent down, rested his forehead against Robin's, and closed his eyes.

"Go on, _say it_."

He chuckled, but did as he had been told. "I'm not alone anymore."

"There are people who care about me."

"There are people who care about me," he recited, and brought his hands up to clasp at her wrists.

"I'm kind of a mess, but they love me anyway." She gently knocked her forehead against his own. 

"I'm a great big, messy bitch, but they love me anyway. For some reason."

"I'm kind of dramatic."

"I'm incredibly dramatic."

"I realize that I'm making a big deal out of nothing."

"I realize that I'm making a big deal, but it's not exactly _nothing_ , it's just not as big as I'm making it out to be."

She was silent a moment, then she reached up and flicked his ear. "And I _also_ realize that the women in my life are much smarter and prettier than me."

He sat back, pouted at her as he rubbed at his ear. "The women in my life are very pretty, in a certain light."

She gasped and made an affronted sound. She poked him in the chest. "And _smarter than you_."

"And they think they're smarter than me."

She poked him again, but she was laughing, too. "Say it! You have to say it _right_!"

He gently held Robin by the shoulders, schooled his face back into something serious. "You _are_ much smarter--"

" _And_ prettier."

"And much, _much_ prettier than I am," he said, sincerely. "I'm not sold on Heather's intelligence, but I will concede that she is a snack."

Robin cackled. "Oh, _please_ , you're an idiot! She's _much_ smarter."

"A _little_ smarter, sure, but her eyesight is definitely worse."

At that, Robin snorted. "What does that have to do with _anything_?"

"She hasn't seen what catch you are and made a goddamn _move_ yet," Billy said, then bopped her on the nose and hopped off the counter. 

She looked startled at that, surprise written clearly across her face. She blinked rapidly, tried to tamper down her smile. "Alright, _alright_ , enough of this emotional shit. Pack your trash and go home. I don't want to see you again until I see Hop, but I will settle for _at least_ a week and a half."

"But--"

"But _nothing_! There is nothing to do," Robin laughed and shoved his shoulder. "You need a vacation, and I _know_ you won't really take one, so I'm putting you on desk duty. _Light_ desk duty. It's actually couch duty, if you really think about it."

"I can't test recipes on the couch," Billy argued, though he knew he wouldn't win.

"You don't _need_ to test jack shit." She pointedly jabbed her finger against his forehead a few times, "You already got all those recipes up here. I know you, Bills, you've already tested _everything_ to hell and back. You just gotta _write it down_."

"I don't want to."

"You have to."

"Go to hell."

"Go write a book," Robin shot back, and threw a dishrag at him. " _Go home_. Take a nap, eat a cookie, make a cocktail--and then _write_."

"But--"

"This kitchen will still be here when you get back," Robin said, and began to push him backward and out of the kitchen. "Consider this a homework assignment. An open book test. You gotta do this before you can open a restaurant."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"That's how it works now."

They were scuffing the fading chalk lines on the floor as Robin continued to push and shove him through the dining room and toward the door. Not that he was putting up much of a fight, mind, but he had to keep up appearances.

"Buck, I have--"

"An assignment, you're right, you should go home and work on that."

"No, I have--"

"Do you _want_ me to do a daily check in?" she threatened. "Because I _will_ , and you know it. I will sic Max on you."

"Max won't--"

"Max _will_."

He felt the cool glass against his back and she pinned him to the door while she fumbled with the lock. "I really don't think this is necessary."

" _I do_ , and I'm in charge now. This is a mutiny."

"That's not how restaurants work."

"It is _now_ , bitch." She made a triumphant sound as the door swung open and he stumbled backward out into the daylight. " _Go away_. Go see Gino, get some cured meat, get some anchovies. You're officially on sabbatical. You're having a staycation, time to _treat yourself._ "

It was useless to argue. As usual, he tried anyway. "The pantry shelving isn't installed yet, and the storage room hasn't been cleared."

"I'll find an intern."

"We can't afford an intern."

"I didn't say they'd be _our_ intern."

"We don't even _need_ an intern."

"Who else will do all the stuff I don't want to?"

"I volunteer."

"Oh, _please_."

"I'm handier than you," he argued.

"Bullshit, I'm a lesbian."

"That's a baseless stereotype!"

" _You_ had to have _me_ on speaker while you built an Ikea table. Is _that_ a baseless stereotype?"

"For the _last time_ , the instructions were _wrong_."

"Were they _really_?"

No. "Yes."

She rolled her eyes and gave him another pointed shove. "Good _bye_."

"But--"

She slipped back inside, slammed the door shut and clicked the lock back into place. She stood in front of the door, hands on her hips, and a smug look on her dumb face. He hated it. He _didn't_ , but he'd sure as _shit_ never tell her that.

"I left my phone in the kitchen," he said, loudly. "And my wallet and keys."

Robin had the audacity to frown at him, mime like she couldn't hear exactly what he had said. She hooked her hand around her ear, then shook her head and gave an exaggerated shrug. 

"Fuck you. Bring me my shit."

She pointed at her ear and shook her head. Mouthed something like _I can't hear you over the sound of you being a little bitch_ , which was, in all honesty, a little ambitious for a simple joke.

He pointedly shook the locked door. "I need my shit, Buckles."

She pointed at her ear again, mouthed _What? I can't hear bitches_ , faked a laugh and started slowly backing away from the door.

"Hey, don't you walk away from me!" He shook the door again, but it was definitely still locked. "Get back here!"

She waved, mouthed _Bitch what_ at him and faded from sight.

She _did_ come back--eventually--one she'd grown tired of listening to him rattle the door. She opened the door back up to politely hand over his phone with a saccharine sort of smile. And then she'd thrown his notebook at his chest, his keys over his shoulder and his wallet at his face, and used the distraction to dart back inside.

"This isn't over!"

He got a _Bitch please_ for his trouble, but he didn't _really_ mind it one bit. He'd get her back. Eventually. Maybe.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which billy just lets himself have a real nice day for once in his goddamn life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good greetings, lovelies! i'm back with a couple two chapters for you. i wanted to post these two together, but i didn't think they really fit in a single chapter. and look! i even kept my promise this time and wrote a pretty short one! 
> 
> i keep forgetting to add to the food masterlist because i just have not had the energy to do them. but i miss them, so i'm definitely gonna have something written up for the next batch of chapters.
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) where i'm sad, dramatic, and kind of a dumbass
> 
> the albums, _rain dogs_ and _mule variations_ , and the song billy sings, _downtown train_ , are all by tom waits

The first photo Billy posted to his Instagram, in well over a year, was taken mid Tuesday morning. Half his face, eyes squinted and fuzzy with sleep, peaking out of the pile of overly fluffy duvet and feather pillows he called his bed. His hair was wild and frizzy with the summer humidity, and the light streaming glinted off his lashes in a way that impressed even him. He didn't bother with a caption, but when he sent it directly to Robin, he added a _Look I slept in and everything_.

 **_Buckles :_ ** _im so proud_

He took it as a challenge. The next photo he sent her was another selfie, this one over the rim of a steaming coffee cup. _Mmm, breakfast._

 **_Buckles_ ** _: cool how’s the book going?_

He sent another selfie, just his barely-tamed hair peaking out over the top of the closest book he could find. It was something fantasy, something probably gifted to him by Max as she continued her quest to educate him on all of the nerd shit he refused to take part in. _Just started chapter 15!_

 **_Buckles_ ** _: not that book_

 _Oh? This one, then?_ He sent another selfie, one significantly _lower_ than the first. He found the biggest book he owned--that wasn't someone _else's_ cookbook--and _strategically_ placed it open over his lap.

 **_Buckles_ ** _: oh please u coulda covered up with a cocktail napkin and still been sfw_

_YOU TAKE THAT BACK THIS INSTANT_

**_Buckles_ ** _: that's overcompensation 101, son. you went too hard_

_Fuck you._

**_Buckles_ ** _: write your damn book_

_Maybe I will_

**_Buckles_ ** _: will you?_

_Yes._

He didn't. _Of course_ he didn't--well, not right away, in any case. She'd have won if he'd done that.

So he didn't do what he'd been instructed, and didn't even bother getting fully _dressed_ once he finally deigned to actually get himself up to do anything productive. He just pulled on a pair of boxers and wandered his way back to his kitchen. He put on _Rain Dogs_ while he made himself lunch, bopped his head along with the beat as his risotto simmered away on the stovetop. Set to work making a stock with the marrow bones he'd roasted the night before, all while he sang along with that familiar drawl. He swayed danced a little with each song--and tried his best not to accidentally chop a finger off as he did so.

He lifted half a celery stalk to his lips and did his best Tom Waits impression as he growled _I know your window and I know it's late_. Sang out _I know your stairs and your doorway_ at the top of his lungs before he tossed his impromptu mic into the waiting stockpot. He sang until his voice was raw and then he sang a little more.

He continued to annoy Robin with obnoxious selfies and snark, made jokes and had _fun_ in a way he hadn't really let himself in a long damn time, despite the lack of immediate company. And, besides, he had to get vengeance _somehow_.

He did-- _eventually_ \--even started his _list_. Opened his notebook up to a fresh page and wrote down a loose smattering of recipes he wanted to include, with little to no rhyme or reason or even theme. But once he finally got a rhythm down, it was hard to really _stop_. He filled more pages than he wanted to think about, put on _Mule Variations_ when the music ran dry, and filled a few pages more as he worked into the evening hours.

It was strange, really how time moved when he wasn't just a prickly ball of anxiety. The day didn't seem to pass in minutes and didn't weigh on him like _weeks_. It was easy, and almost leisurely. 

All in all, his Tuesday was _good_.

Which was, in and of itself, incredibly fucking _odd_.

And, more than that, it was actually kinda fucking _sad_ , if Billy thought about it for too long. Made him ache, a little, deep in his chest, in the spot he saved solely for Max and Robin and Heather and Lucas--and _Steve_ , now, too. Because what had he even _been_ having, if any previous good day he'd ever had had never been quite so good as a simple fucking Tuesday?

He couldn't even blame it on Steve. It wasn't even as if the man had magicked his day better, like usual, with a wide smile and a bubbly laugh and a toss of his fluffy goddamn hair. Hell, Steve had _cancelled_. Texted around noon to say he would be stuck in the office until late, that he would probably be busy Wednesday night, too.

And, _maybe_ , his _good_ was helped along by the fact that Steve hadn't _stopped_ texting him. But Billy would argue that a photo of a lofty, haphazard stack of well-stuffed manila folders and a string of angry emojis wasn't enough to induce euphoria. But even he could admit that he'd been wrong before.

Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, Billy felt _good_ when he woke Tuesday, and the feeling didn't once even begin to ebb as the day drew on. 

And he was still _good_ when he crawled into bed, that night. Still warm and at ease, still _happy_.

He took another photo, mimicking the first he'd taken that morning. His gaze was a little more alert, eyes narrowed and brows drawn in a frown. He didn't bother with Instagram, simply sent it directly to Robin.

_Can i come back to work now?_

**_Buckles_ ** _: try it i dare you_

He sent another photo, this time with sad, watery eyes and his lower lip pushed forward in a dramatic sort of pout. _Pretty please?_

 **_Buckles_ ** _: put that away_

_I miss you_

**_Buckles_ ** _: its cute how you still think that works on me after all these years_

 **_Buckles_ ** _: send me a rough draft and we'll renegotiate_

_Fuck you for real this time._

**_Buckles_ ** _: i love you too <3 _

Billy smiled to himself and set his phone away on the nightstand.

And when he woke Wednesday morning, he was ready to do it all over again. He felt _light_. Like he wasn't weighed down by responsibilities and anxieties and countless fears he couldn't even put names to. He felt, for the first time in a long, _long_ time, like he could well and truly _breathe_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, quick question, how does flirting work
> 
> so next chapter will be a little bit of an experiment and i'm not sure how it'll shake out. but i'll post chapter 21 at the same time, because it IS finished and i'm kinda excited to post that one cuz its cute af.
> 
> <3

Steve greeted Billy with another of those great big hugs, immediately wrapped those long arms around him and held on tight. " _Fuck_ , I feel like I haven't seen you in _months_."

"It's only been a _week_ ," Billy chuckled and gratefully burrowed down into the hold. He loved Steve's hugs. Loved the tight band of warmth around his ribcage, the hand cradled against the nape of his neck, the spicy-citrus scent of his cologne. It settled him, righted him, set him straight in a way fews things could. A little softer, a little bit more sincere, Billy added, "I missed you, too."

Steve hummed and squeezed him tight for a few more moments before he stepped back and held him by the shoulders for a moment, eyes narrowed as he studied Billy. "You look… good."

He ducked his head, huffed a little laugh. "It's been a surprisingly good week, if I'm honest."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Real good." 

" _Good_. It's about time you got one of those," Steve said, lips quirked up in a little smile. "You deserve a break from little ol' me."

Billy scoffed and rolled his eyes. " _Oh, please_ , none of that. If anything, my week has just gotten even better."

Steve's smile turned bashful and sweet, and his cheeks lit up pink. He dropped his grip on Billy's shoulders, let his hands wring at his sides. With a little laugh, he joked, "I bet you say that to all the boys."

"Only the really, _really_ pretty ones," Billy said, feeling a little brazen. He didn't _leer_ at Steve, didn't flash his teeth or shoot him a lecherous grin. He didn't _tease_. He smiled, he _hoped_ , sweetly. He met Steve's gaze head on, watched the blush darken across his cheeks. He gently brushed a knuckle over the back of Steve's hand. He titled his head toward the kitchen, "What do you say, _Pretty Boy_? Ready to get cookin'?"

Steve bit his lip for a moment, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. But then he rolled his eyes and lightly shoved Billy’s shoulder, "Lead the way."

Billy just curled an arm around his back and tugged him along. He got a another deep blush for his trouble, but Steve went with him easy enough.

"Sorry I didn't really call ahead and get anything planned for tonight," he muttered and gently nudged his elbow against Billy's side as they walked. "It's been a long week."

"That's fine, I get it. We'll figure something out," Billy assured him, gently. "Anything sound good? Fried chicken? Fish? Teach you how to cook the perfect burger?"

Steve pursed his lips in thought as he broke off to take his customary seat at the island. "Well, ideally, any and all of those, at some point. But maybe fish next? My friend has a birthday coming up in, like, two weeks, and she's more or less a…" He frowned, floundered for a moment, and then gave Billy a helpless sort of look, "Presbyterian?"

He couldn't have stopped the inelegant snort of laughter if he'd tried. " _Pescetarian._ "

"Right, _that_. She's that," Steve said with a decisive nod and a little blush.

"Well, how many are you gonna feed?"

"Uh, I think just three of us."

"You wanna make, like, a full meal?" Billy asked, already planning out a menu in his head. Something easy enough that Steve wouldn’t panic when he was alone in his own kitchen. "Salad, dinner, dessert?"

"Maybe just the salad and dinner? Jonathan said they would bring cake," Steve said, as he chewed his lip in thought-- _and_ the usual sort of worry he couldn’t seem to shake.

"We can definitely do that," Billy said, and nodded. "Alright, how long do we have? Two weeks, you said?"

"Yeah, her birthday is on the 10th."

"Perfect, that's plenty of time." Billy clapped his hands together, "What's your schedule look like?"

Steve winced a little. “Busy."

"That's alright, this isn't going to be hard for you to do, I promise." He offered a smile, got a small one in return. "What days are you free?"

"Tomorrow, Friday, and then next Thursday and Friday," he grumbled and deflated a little. "I might get shit done faster a couple nights in between, but that's what I'm working with right now."

"And that's _fine_." Billy gently squeezed his shoulder, gave him a little shake for good measure, "Whatever time you _do_ have, we'll make it work. And if you suddenly find yourself with free time, that's great, too. I'm kind of on vacation, so I'll be free whenever you are."

Steve’s expression immediately fell, “Oh, shit, I didn’t even ask if you had plans or anything! You don’t need me taking your time!”

"No, _no_ , you're always welcome," Billy laughed and shook his head. "I've got a cookbook to write and a few weeks of thumb-twiddling at the restaurant. I was forced into a sabbatical."

"But I'm still keeping you from working on your book," Steve muttered, lips still pursed. "Vacations are, like, for relaxing! You don't need to be babysitting me, too."

"Do you know what I would be doing right now, right this _minute_ , if you weren't here?" Billy asked. He waited until Steve gave him a little shake of his head. "Absolutely fucking _nothing_."

It worked, got a laugh out of him. Not a _big_ one by any means, but it was a start.

"You're not putting me out. I'd have said something if I was actually busy. You are the highlight of my goddamn week any time you're here,” Billy promised, then turned away to grab a notepad from where it was stuck to the fridge. Maybe a little change of scenery would do them good. "We're taking a field trip."

"What, right now?"

"Yep, right now. It's a little late to get started cooking tonight, so let's go to the market and I'll show you what to shop for when it's your turn to do it all by yourself," he said, and started making a bulleted list of ingredients. "I'll even buy you a late dinner. There's a good deli down the block, and they're open late."

Another of those deep blushes, another bashful little smile. "You don't have to do _that_."

"Nonsense. I'm hungry and we aren't actually cooking tonight," Billy said, easily. He grabbed a few canvas bags and threw them at Steve's head, just to wrangle another laugh out of him, and began to herd him toward the door. "C'mon, we're wasting daylight!"

"It's, like, _eight_! It's officially night!"

"Fine, the deli closes at nine, we gotta _go_!"

"Are you always this _pushy_ ?" Steve demanded, and swung the bags around to smack him on the hip. "We're going to the _grocery store._ It's, like, _a block away_."

"I dunno if I mentioned it a moment ago, but I'm very hungry. I believe I was promised a sandwich."

"No, _you_ promised _me_ a sandwich."

" _Hmmm_ , I don't think so." He gave an exaggerated frown, just to get Steve to laugh again.

" _Yes_ so."

"Sounds fake."

An outraged squawk, another playful smack with the ratty canvas bags. "You're a _menace_."

"And you're real easy to rile up,” he teased back, and stuck his tongue out at the man as he shoved him out the door. "Alright, game plan. Tonight, we're gonna show you everything you need to shop for. Tomorrow, we tackle salad, maybe some biscuits if you're feeling brave. Then crispy snap peas and roasted potatoes on Friday. And then _next_ Thursday, we'll teach you how to properly cook some salmon. Friday, dress rehearsal," he listed off, and looked to his companion for approval. "Sound good to you? Enough time to calm your nerves?"

"I don't get _nerves_ ," Steve grumbled, indignantly. He made another face at Billy, but nodded. He wrung the shopping bags in his hands as they wandered toward the elevator. "And you're _sure_ I can do it?"

"I'm sure," Billy said, firmly. And it was _true_. The recipes weren't hard and Steve could more than handle himself in a kitchen--if he'd just stop telling himself otherwise. "Besides, I'll be there with you every step of the way. Okay?"

He wasn't even half as good at pep talks as Robin, but he figured the absolutely _blinding_ smile he got for his trouble was a pretty damn good reward.

Steve, as luck would have it, liked his ham sandwiches the same way he liked his turkey: at least sixty-five percent tomato. 

He liked a little horseradish, too, and a little melty gouda for good measure. Liked a handful of greens, too. But his theft of tomato slices hadn't been a fluke, and Billy made a note to start another plant or two.

As it was, Steve's chin was slick with tomato juice. He was a _mess_ . Absolutely filthy, and Billy hated how endearing he found it, this daub of mayo on the tip of his nose and crumbs all down the front of his t-shirt. There was a speck of lettuce stuck in his teeth, too, and Billy was hard-pressed to find it anything other than _cute_.

Billy'd chosen a sandwich only _slightly_ more dignified, but Russian dressing still spilled down over his fingers. He didn't look down to see if he'd dripped on his own shirt, he knew he wouldn't like the answer. Reubens were sit down sandwiches, but Steve had wanted to walk as they are, and who was Billy to deny him that?

"Need a hand?" Steve asked, around a mouthful of sandwich, clearly amused. "Looks like you're havin' a little trouble there."

" _Me_? You're one to talk!" He chuckled and nodded to Steve's shirt, "You need breadcrumbs to find your way back from the store?"

Steve glanced down and groaned. "The pair of us, huh? Can't believe we're allowed out in public. Disgraceful."

"I _said_ we could sit and eat, you're the one who insisted on locomotion," Billy snarked back, and nudged Steve with an elbow. "C'mon, find us a place to sit or we're both gonna need a shower before we make it to the store."

Steve laughed, and did as he was told. He found them a bench a few store fronts down from their destination and nudged Billy toward it.

It was nice, getting to share a meal like that. It wasn't exactly _romantic_ , not by Billy's usual standards, but it was _nice_. It was _easy_. They didn't have to say anything, could just sit in easy silence as the night slowly darkened around them.

It was about as perfect as Billy could imagine, if he was honest with himself--for _once_.

"I like you like this," Steve said, eventually. He frowned little as he studied Billy. "You're… I dunno, you're still _you_ , you're just--lighter, I guess."

"Feel lighter," he admitted and glanced down at the remains of the sandwich in his hands. "Not quite so weighed down by everything. Not really feeling _burdened_ anymore, I guess. That's all thanks to you, ya know. You bein' so damn easy to talk to."

"I didn't do anything," Steve argued.

"You got me talkin', which is no mean feat," Billy said, firmly. "I have trouble saying what I need to at the best of times, when I'm _not_ ready to just snap at the slightest complication. You're just--real easy to talk to, I guess. You've got a way about you. Feels safe, really, to say all the shit I'm not used to sayin' when you're around."

"But, I really didn't--"

"Oh, _hush_. You did. I'm not sayin' you purposefully went out of your way, I'm sayin' that you just being _you_ was enough. More than enough," Billy said and tossed his trash in the closest can he could see. "Dunno how to explain it, really. But I _do_ know that I'd have fewer friends right now if you hadn't done your sorcery, and got me calmed down enough to actually _talk_."

"It's not sorcery," Steve murmured, but he gave a small, bashful kind of laugh. Ducked his head, hid his blush beneath his hair. "I didn't _do_ anything. I just listened, that's all."

"And that ain't _nothing_ ," Billy reminded him, and cast him a smile. "But you made me a sandwich, too. It's practically magic, in fact."

There was another little laugh and Steve leaned into Billy's shoulder, "Not _magic_ , not sorcery. None of that."

"No? Well, must just be all _you_ then," Billy teased, and slung an arm around Steve's shoulders to pull the man tighter to his side. 

Despite the night that slowly crept up around them, it was still hot out. It was still sticky and gross with summer heat. His hair was still a little frizzy, and his stained shirt clung to his back in a way he didn't _really_ like. By all rights, he should have been miserable in the Chicago night.

But Steve was pressed comfortably to his side, all oven-warm heat and easy smiles, and the summer heat had nothing on him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greetings friends! another two chapter post today!
> 
> this chapter is a little bit of an experiment, and i wasn't sure how it would go over. i wanted to do a bit more like little vignettes or snapshots of moments during billy's time off. i have two more chapters like this planned, but theyre far off, still.

"Hey Mad Max." He waved at her through the fuzzy screen, "How's the East Coast treating you?"

" _A whole lot better than it used to, that's for sure_ ," She grumbled. " _I'd almost managed to forget how bad Boston smells in the summer_."

"As a current resident of Chicago in the summer, it can't _possibly_ smell any worse there than it does here," Billy grumbled. "Swampy piss is swampy piss."

" _And_ this _is some swampy piss and molasses_ ," Max argued, and Billy had to concede that one with a small nod. " _Lucas is heading home Saturday morning, you still good to pick him up?_ "

"Yeah, yeah. Just send me the details and I'll be there," Billy promised. "How's the family otherwise?" Off screen, Billy could hear rising voices and a few slamming cabinet doors. He lifted an eyebrow at Max, "That good huh?"

" _Put Lucas and Erica in the same room, they're gonna get into a debate of_ some _kind_ ," she groused and rolled her eyes hard. " _I'd introduce you two, but I'm scared you won't get along. More scared that you will, actually._ "

"I should be offended, but I'll let it slide for now." He’d get her back, eventually, by being Erica’s best friend--or personal chef as she took over the world single-handedly, if Lucas’ stories were anything to judge from. "You went out to visit someone else, right?"

She nodded, attention still off-screen. " _Yeah, we all came out to visit Dustin_ ," she said, and began to frown. " _He and the rest of the party went out to the game shop, and they--hey watch the stove_!" she shouted and darted off. She couldn’t be trusted in _his_ kitchen, but she sure as hell didn’t seem to trust anyone else.

He chuckled to himself, and listened to pots banging and water running. And then it was a _new_ face in front of the screen, as Max and Lucas bickered in the background.

" _And just who are_ you _supposed to be?_ " she asked, eyes narrow and more than a little judgemental.

"Erica Sinclair, I presume?"

She smirked. " _Billy Hargrove, as I live and breathe._ "

But, of course, before a beautiful friendship could start, it had to be ruined.

" _No,_ no _, you two would destroy the world_ ," Lucas yelled, and then it was a mad, cacophonous scramble to get the laptop away from her. The screen went dark on Erica's unimpressed face, Lucas' shouts, and Max’s laughter.

*

"Come on, now, don't give me that look," Billy chided and nudged Steve's notebook back across the counter. "I taught you how to make, like, _twelve_ different salad dressings, and gave you the recipes for a ton more."

"Yeah, but--"

"Yeah, _but_ , you're gonna do _fine_ , Steve. I dunno how many times I have to tell you to stop needlessly worrying, but I think I've reached my limit. You’re _good at this_. And I get that it’s new, I do, but I’m not asking you to bake me a cake," Billy said, and tapped at the notebook again. "All I'm asking you to do is choose a dressing."

He whined. Head back and shoulders hunched, lip curled in disgust, full on _brat_ , whined. And when Billy didn't relent, he sighed and dragged the notebook closer. "I want it on record that I'm doing this under extreme duress."

"It's been noted."

He sent Billy a narrow-eyed look, but began flipping through his pages of recipes. He hemmed and hawed his way though, before he eventually pushed the book back toward Billy and tapped at the presented page, "How about the Orange-walnut dressing?"

"That's great, it's a good choice," Billy assured him and got a pleased little smile in return. And then, because he was _mean_ , waited until Steve began to relax before he tapped the page and added, "Now make it."

Steve's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're real lucky you're cute."

"Because I'm an asshole?"

"Because you're an _asshole_ ," Steve agreed, but he was grinning.

*

A young man recognized him at the gym.

And not in a way that made him uncomfortable, for once. He looked at Billy with wide eyes, for a moment far too long to be casual, and quickly spun away when he noticed himself being noticed, ears burning red.

It was kinda cute, really. He didn’t have that look about him, with the slow, hungry smirk Billy had grown used to. It wasn’t the look of scorn he was also, sadly, used to. 

It was _starstruck_. Something Billy _wasn’t_ used to.

But the kid left soon after being caught. Kept his head down, very much didn’t look in Billy’s direction as he practically ran out of the locker room.

Billy made a note to look nicer, next time he went to the gym. Maybe a little more _approachable_ than usual.

*

Heather bounced into the apartment, every bit her usual bright and bubbly self, and almost immediately froze. Billy winced and braced himself for the roasting she was sure to deliver. She spun in a slow, unimpressed circle as she cast a wary eye about the place. “It’s… nice. All modern and such. Classy. _Clean_.” She frowned a little, tilted her head in consideration. “Grey? No, beige. Is it beige?”

Billy sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Property manager called it _greige_.”

“ _Greige_.” She gave him a mocking look, eyebrows raised. “It's _nice_ . Real _high class_ . Looks good with that--what is it, is that _eggshell_ ? Looks nice with the _eggshell_ accent wall."

“Yeah, I get it.”

“It’s real _open_ , you know?”

“Please stop,” he begged.

“The single couch is a nice touch. Minimalism is in, now, right?”

"I haven't had time to unpack!"

She cooed and danced herself over. She pinched his cheek and gave him a bright, teasing grin. “We really keeping you _that busy_? Can’t even move into your own apartment? Hang one, single picture?”

“I only liked the kitchen, anyway,” he muttered. "This was the first place that was both available _and_ had a big pantry."

“Billy, this isn't a _hotel room_ , this is your apartment. Your domicile. You _abode_. Maybe even your _home_ , for awhile," she said, and lightly pinched his cheek again. "You're not gonna be comfortable when you treat this place like it's not even yours."

"I mean, _technically_ , it's not."

"That wasn't my point."

"I know," he muttered, then added, "I'm working on it."

She gave him a bright grin. "Call me when you hit up Home Goods. We'll make it a date."

He rolled his eyes and backed away from her. "You know, I didn't bring you here for decorating advice," he grumbled and walked backward toward his pantry door. "I have half a mind to keep your present until Christmas."

"You wouldn't _dare_."

"You're right, but I _can_ wait another week."

She immediately hopped in place a little, rocked on the balls of her feet. She mimed zipping her lips and tucking the imaginary key into her pocket.

He just rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. "Alright, in you get. You'll know it when you see it.” _It_ was about fifteen different, homemade cocktail bitters for her to experiment with. Not that he wasn’t to make it harder for her to finish up her drinks menu, but he’d had the idea and he thought she’d have fun with it.

From inside the pantry, she screamed and he braced himself as she ran back out of the room and tried to tackle him to the floor.

*

"Alright, into the oven with _those_ ," Steve recited, under his breath, brow furrowed in concentration as he slid the tray of smashed potatoes into the hot oven. He fiddled with the timer--a tea kettle, a recent addition that Max had sent from Boston--for a long moment. "Alright, fifteen minutes on that.”

“Yep, and then you’ll flip them and bake about twenty minutes more,” Billy nodded, encouragingly.

"Now what?"

"Right now you'll make those snap peas, and, next week, you’ll cook the salmon as well."

Steve considered that a moment, lips pursed in thought, before he gave Billy a small smile and a sweet little blush. "Is there anything that takes about the same time that you can teach me tonight?" Steve asked, a little shyly. "I mean, we might as well make dinner, right?"

And it wasn’t a candlelit dinner, wasn’t the romantic date he’d fantasized about, long before Steve had ever stumbled his way into Billy’s kitchen. It was a little sweeter, actually. A little bit closer to _perfect_ than anything he couldn’t have dreamed up himself. “Yeah, Pretty Boy, I got just the thing.”

*

"Get me a bed, a beer and a burger," Lucas grumbled, as he shoved his bag into Billy's trunk. He looked like hell, and after an almost six hour delay, Billy wasn't surprised that he sounded it, too. "In that order."

"That bad?"

"I hate people, I hate _flying_ , I hate long layovers, I hate _delays_ , and, more than _anything_ ," Lucas snapped, and slammed the trunk closed with a _fury_ he must have learned from Max, "I hate _people_."

"Would you like a hug?" Billy asked, and then he got nothing from the younger man but a dry look and silence, tacked on a, "Too soon?"

"Little bit," he said, with narrowed eyes. "Still not sure if I like you or not."

Billy shrugged, because Lucas at least _sounded_ playful when he said it, and waved him toward the passenger door. "Fair enough. Let's get the hell out of here, then."

" _Please_."

In the car, Lucas immediately slumped against the door. He really _did_ look like hell. His t-shirt was rumpled and he smelled like stale air and the secondhand body odor that came with cramped seats and a lack of personal space.

Billy felt for him, he really did.

"What's the plan?" he asked, and carefully pulled out of the parking stall to merge with the sluggish traffic. The airport was _busy_ , and he didn't look forward to the ride out. "Just back home? Need anything on the way?"

"I'm _tired_ and I want my bed, I'm so hungry I have heartburn, and I would literally knock a baby over to get a little alcohol right now," he muttered, eyes closed and forehead tilted against the cool glass. "That a good answer?"

"It's _an_ answer, but it's not _good_ if it means you're feelin' like shit," Billy muttered, and got a little hum of acknowledgement. 

"That's sweet. Doesn't _help_ , but it's nice to know you care."

It _sounded_ sarcastic, but Billy didn't think it really was. He _hoped_ , at least. "Crash at mine," Billy offered, and blindly dug the soft lunch bag out from behind his seat. He dropped it onto Lucas' lap, "Can't do much about the bed for awhile yet, but I figured you'd want some real food. Packed you a sandwich."

There was a long beat of silence, before he asked, "What kind of sandwich?"

"I've been in the mood for turkey lately."

A him of approval, the sound of velcro and the crinkle of the butcher paper he'd wrapped it in. There was a crunch of crisp lettuce and onion, and a satisfied groan of approval. And then a hopeful, "Beer?" muffled around a mouthful of sandwich.

"There's a water bottle at your feet, and I've got wine and porkchops back at my place," Billy suggested. "Spare room might be full of boxes, but I _did_ remember to move the bed in."

"I mean, it _sounds_ good when you lay it all out like that, but how am I gonna get home tomorrow?"

"I'll drop you on the way."

"The way _where_?"

"I mean, tomorrow _is_ Sunday, right?" he asked, and kept his eyes on the road in front of them. "Can't miss brunch."

There was another long beat of silence, broken only by the sound of traffic and the crinkle of butcher paper. It was almost long enough for him to regret it, to feel like an idiot for even _thinking_ of suggesting it. Almost long enough to make him want to throw himself into traffic just to avoid the failed conversation altogether.

But then Lucas hummed a little, "Yeah, gotta keep up the tradition."

He relaxed a little and smiled to himself. "Good. There's a pillow behind your seat if you want a nap. If this keeps up, it'll be at least eight before we make it."

A small huff of a laugh, another crunch of lettuce. "Really thought of everythin', didn't you?"

"I wanted to be _prepared_."

A disbelieving snort. "You're such a _mom_."

"I prefer _daddy_ ," he threw out before he could stop himself, and reached over to pat Lucas' back when he pretended to start choking. "Doin' alright, baby?"

There was a squawk of protest, a cough, and then Billy began to actually _fear_ he might have to tell Max he accidentally killed her boyfriend with a sandwich.

*

"Food?"

He nodded, "Yes. Food. You wanna?"

He blinked at Billy again, frown deepening. "I, uh, don't really photograph food."

"I know. I _did_ look at your work before I asked," Billy reminded him, and he _had_. The proofs he'd sent had been just as good as Robin had promised, and Billy had been impressed enough to seek out his work, and then he'd been _truly_ impressed. "That doesn't mean you'd be bad at it."

"I literally have no training in this kind of thing," Jon argued. "I don't _like_ shooting still lifes, let alone know the first thing about lighting _food_. This isn't my area, I'm not gonna do it _right_."

"I haven't done a thing _right_ in my entire damn life, Byers," Billy said. "I knocked an instructor's teeth on my way out of culinary school, I tore through every restaurant dumb enough to hire me, and I burned every bridge I came across--some of those before I ever even _reached them_. This isn't gonna be just some run of the mill cookbook. That ain't me. I'm gonna do this my way.

"So I'm asking you. Not any of those other dime-a-dozen bozos, I'm asking _you_ if you want to take photos of food. If I wanted someone who knew what they were doing, I'd have gone to any of the usual, boring photographers and end up with something that reads like the paper equivalent of Wonderbread."

Jon watched him for a long moment, head tilted in consideration, and Billy was getting used to being looked at like that. "You're not exactly how I imagined you'd be, from all Nance and Robin's talk," he said, finally, and it wasn't an outright _no_.

"I'm working through some shit," Billy said, and it wasn't an outright _fuck you_.

But Jon cracked half of a smile. He huffed a bit of a laugh and shook his head. "Alright, sell me on it," he said, and sat back into his chair. "What are you _really_ thinking?"

*

"And she's so _smart_ , Bill!"

He rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes, she's very smart."

"And--and I _remember_ her last girlfriend an' she _was a doctor_!" she whined into his shoulder, practically curled in his lap. He was old hat at Drunk Heather, and he mouthed along with her, " _A doctor_ , Bill!"

He cooed at her, appropriately sympathetic and more than a little mocking. "I know, it's not fair."

"It's not _fair_!"

"And she's so pretty."

"She's _so pretty_ , Bill."

"You should ask her out, then," Billy suggested.

" _No_ , I _can't_!" Heather wailed. "Robin likes smart girls! She li-likes girls with _degrees_ and girls who save lives and have letters after their names! I'm jus' a bartender."

Who regularly went on Food Network shows and had _her own_ books and her own show on YouTube, much the way Billy did--and with a much better reputation, to boot. Heather, who had made a name for herself by the time he and Robin had stumbled into her bar one night. 

But he knew better than to argue with her. Drunk Heather didn't listen to logic, and she was stubborn as hell. So he didn’t argue, gently nudged her away from his shoulder. If he couldn’t convince her, he could at least keep her busy. “Go try the pecan pie bitters next.”

She sniffled a little and rubbed at her nose, and Billy could almost see the gears turning in her head. “D’you have the La--the _Laphro_ \--”

“The Laphroaig?”

“Tha’s the one.”

“Got a new bottle, just for you,” he murmured and immediately regretted it when her lip wobbled dangerously.

“That’s so _sweet_ , Bill,” she wailed, and threw herself back against his chest. 

He winced at the impact. “Alright, let’s get you some water and talk about Robin’s eyes some more.”

“They _sparkle_ , Bill!”

“I know,” he promised, and rolled his eyes. “I know they do.”

*

It started with the bundle of ramps he got from the market, fresh and crisp. 

And then it was the bag of shelled pistachios that had caught his fancy.

And then it was a stray pang of hunger in his belly, a desire for something _rich_ and, at _least_ , sixty percent carbs. And then he was on a bus downtown without much thought or planning in between.

And, really, it wasn't even until he was _home_ , fresh guanciale and a bag of paccheri in hand, and looking toward Steve’s window across the way, that he remembered the restaurant. Remembered how _close_ he was. How he could have just walked the couple blocks from Gino's and just _been there_. Been in the kitchen he’d built.

And it was a strange stray thought that, maybe, he didn't _need it_ quite so much as he’d always thought. That he didn’t need to rely on his work to get him by and see him through. That it wasn’t the be all, end all of his life. That it wasn’t all his _worth_. 

That he could have his _work_ , and have his _life_ , and that they didn’t have to be one and the same. That he could have _both_. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i wasn't sure if i was gonna do a two chapter post this time around, but this is officially my second favorite chapter i've written for this fic so far and i was really excited to post it, so i didn't want to wait any more!
> 
> as always you can join me over on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/)
> 
> <333

Steve didn't look happy where he stood in the doorway, that much was obvious. Didn't look relaxed, his shoulders tense and pulled up near his ears. His shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and top few buttons undone. His tie was missing, his jacket, too, and his hair was limp and lifeless. There was a smudge on his glasses that Billy found himself wanting to reach out and clean.

"Hey, what's up?" Billy asked, and immediately drew Steve into their now customary hug. He made a soft little noise and tucked his face down into the crook of Billy's neck. He'd texted an hour before, asked if he could come over, despite not having lessons planned. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Nothing, just a long day. Client's shitty soon-to-be-ex husband," he muttered, nuzzled a little closer. He didn't really even return the hug, exactly, just let his arms hang limp at his sides as he leaned his weight against Billy's chest. "Not that there's really anything specific to talk about, even if I _could_ , just… just tired. Fucker is _exhausting_."

"We don't have to talk. We don't have to do _anything_ ," he promised. "Just want to keep me company? Want a little dinner?"

He made a frustrated little noise. "I don't think--I don't have enough in me for lessons tonight."

"I know, Pretty Boy, I know," Billy murmured, and gently dragged his hand over Steve's back. "We’ll worry about all that tomorrow. You don't have to do a damn thing right now, just relax while I whip something up for you. How about that?"

"That's okay. I'm okay. My intern bought me pizza because he felt sorry for me," he muttered, voice muffled against Billy’s clavicle.

"Was it good pizza at least?"

"Eh, it was okay."

Billy made a sympathetic sound, brought a hand up to drag through Steve's messy hair. "Can I do anything to make it better?"

"This is good."

"Yeah?"

A nod, Steve’s nose digging into the point of Billy’s clavicle. "More of this."

"Well, why don't we relocate to the kitchen, then?" Billy gently dragged his nails across the crown of Steve's head, and the man in his arms _purred_. "Get you off your feet, get you something warm and soothing to drink, all the head scritches you could ask for. Sound like a plan?"

"Yeah, okay." He pressed a little harder into Billy for a moment, and then leaned back. He managed a tired smile, eyes a little unfocused behind his glasses and ringed in dark bags. "Thanks."

"Nothing to thank, Pretty Boy." He gently nudged Steve's chin up, and curled an arm around Steve's shoulders to lead him further into the apartment. "Come on, let's get you taken care of, huh?"

He didn't blush when he leaned back into Billy’s side and let himself be led toward their now-familiar haunt. He was too exhausted to manage even his usual bashful sort of shyness. He shuffled along at Billy's side, his movements slow and heavy.

In the kitchen, Steve immediately slumped into a stool and draped as much of himself over the cool island counter as he could. He folded an arm up under his cheek, curled the other against his chest and simply--stayed. Seemed to deflate against the countertop. That bright flame that usually lit Steve up from the inside, extinguished for the night.

It broke Billy’s heart a little. Steve was never supposed to look like that, not ever. He gently brushed a hand over Steve’s head and set to work.

He set the kettle to boil on the stove, and readied a tea bag. It was some herbal thing Heather had blended for him. She’d called it _calming_ , because she thought he needed that kind of thing. Sweet bits of apple and shards of crushed cinnamon sticks and cardamom pods, chamomile flowers and honeybush and cloves. It was nice, just as soothing as she’d intended--though he didn’t want to ruin his image by ever admitting it to her.

"Here you go, a nice apple-cinnamon tea," Billy murmured and slid the steaming mug across the counter toward him. He sank a hand back into Steve's soft hair and those pretty doe eyes slipped closed with a soft sigh. "What else do you need?"

"This is good," Steve murmured. He barely moved, just butted his head up against Billy's fingers, but it was something.

"Yeah? Nothing else?" he prodded, quietly. "Little music? Something to eat?"

"No, m'fine."

"Are you sure?" 

"You can talk about stuff. If you want."

"About what?" He kept up his gentle touches, soothing and steady. "What stories can I tell you?"

A soft hum, a minute shrug. Those big, brown eyes opened and he turned his face toward Billy for a moment, long enough just to _smile_ sweetly. When he turned away again, he caught sight of Billy's notebook on the counter and something more than just pure _exhaustion_ lit his expression. He tugged the notebook closer, frowning curiously at the words. "What's all this?"

"Recipes I want to include in my next cookbook." He propped his chin up on a fist and watched on as Steve read over the words. He continued petting through the thick hair, gently scratched his nails over Steve's scalp just to see him shiver.

Steve pointed to a scribbled line, about halfway down the opened page, "What is this one?"

He'd written the list in what anyone else would call code, a short hand that was quick to write and only really for him to understand at a glance. All abbreviations and scribbles that sometimes even had him floundering for what he’d meant.

Steve tapped the line again. " _Sunroot and pesto_. What does that mean?"

"Jerusalem artichoke soup with spinach and hazelnut pesto," he answered, and chuckled when Steve made a face. "Doesn't sound good?"

"I don't like spinach," he grumbled, almost petulantly.

"I bet you'd like this."

"Lies. Spinach is _bad_ ," he said, but he smiled a little. He scanned the list a little further, then tapped at another line. "What about this one? _Fondant swede_."

"Fondant rutabaga gratin."

"I thought fondant was, like, a cake thing."

"Yeah, there is fondant icing. What it means _here_ is slowly cooking the rutabaga, in a _shitton_ of butter, until it's soft and caramelized," he answered, dutifully. And he _would_ , as long as Steve continued to look at him like that, eyes intent and interested. As long as he asked, Billy figured he would always take the time to answer.

"And this one; _Lamb, yog and chard_. What's--what does _yog_ mean?"

"Yogurt. Spiced lamb meatballs, with warm yogurt and Swiss chard."

"And _cheesecake and pickles_?" Steve lifted an eyebrow up at Billy. "There _has_ to be a reasonable explanation for that, and I doubt _very much_ if it's a pregnancy craving."

He laughed and shook his head. "No, no. It's a savory cheesecake. A _blue_ cheesecake, if you will, with some leeks and herbs. Topped with pickled beets and honey."

Another face. "You _would_ like blue cheese."

Another laugh bubbled up out of him and he thought back to the face Lucas had made at the mention of blue cheese. The same scrunched nose and drawn brow, lip curled in disgust. "I'll _never_ figure you midwesterners out. Blue cheese dressing is _far_ superior to ranch."

" _God_ , you're disgusting. Blue cheese and _beets_. So gross." He sent Billy half a glare, but his lips were curved in a small, playful smile. " _Chicken, sweets and scals_?"

"Roast chicken and sweet potatoes, with miso and scallions."

A hum, a turn of the page. "And what about… _Baked pumps, mushs and gru_? I can guess the first two, but what the fuck is a _gru_?"

"I couldn't remember how to spell gruyére," he said, just to watch Steve laugh. "Whole baby pumpkins, roasted, and stuffed with mushrooms, scallions, grains and cheese."

Another hum, a little softer than before. Steve tilted his head up against Billy's hand for a moment. "What about _Farro pud and oranges_?" He asked. When he looked up at Billy again, his face was relaxed, finally. His shoulders no longer stiff and his jaw no longer tense and clenched. "What's farro?"

"It's a blend of grains, wheat. Served kinda like rice or barley."

"And _pud_? Is that, like, do you mean pudding?"

"Yeah, exactly. Like a baked rice pudding." He offered Steve an encouraging smile. "Serve with caramelized orange segments, a little tahini and pistachios, maybe."

"That sounds real good," Steve said, his face open and curious. "Is it difficult to make?"

"No, not at all."

"Will you teach me?" Steve asked, voice small and soft. He sounded tired, still, but not half as despondent as he had when he'd arrived.

"Yeah? You up for it tonight?" he asked. He scratched his nails across Steve's scalp once more, before he drew his hand back. "I _do_ have everything we'd need."

He nodded, his smile small and a little hopeful. "Yeah, I think I'm okay after all. Are you?"

"For you? Always."

Steve laughed, cheeks immediately ruddy. "Stop flirting, you're a menace." He sat up from his slouch against the counter and gave Billy a narrow-eyed look and a playful shake of the head, "A _rascal_."

"A rake?"

"An absolute _scoundrel_ ," Steve agreed with a pleased little grin.

Billy chuckled, shook his head a little. "Well, this scoundrel doesn't _have_ to teach you a damn thing, so I think you should be a little bit nicer."

"Oh, _please_. You're gonna, no matter what I say or how I say it."

"Yeah? How you figure that?"

Steve's smile slipped into something a little more smug. "You just can't say no to me."

 _Smug_ was a good look on Steve. Far better than the sad look he'd worn when he arrived at Billy's door. Never mind that he was _right_ \--that Billy'd worship the ground Steve walked on if he'd even just _hint_ at it--it was the, soft expression on his face. Comfortable, finally, and at ease despite the dark circles beneath his eyes. 

Billy rolled his eyes, blew a raspberry at the man just to make him laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Hop to it, smartass. Go get the milk and cream out of the fridge."

Steve laughed, sweet and happy. He paused long enough to lean back against Billy's shoulder, to curl an arm around his waist for a moment, in a gentle half-hug, before he moved on. But, for once, the warmth of the gesture didn't leave with him. It stayed put, right where it belonged, and burned in Billy's chest with a wood-oven heat.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how i keep meaning to write slightly shorter chapters and then they get away from me? well welcome to its mean cousin, "i intended for this to be much longer than it ended up being." writing hopper was easier this time, but he said what he needed to say and let, so here we are. BUT, on the bright side, the next chapter is nearly finished. i mean, it's p short, too, but it's coming!
> 
> song playing at the end of the chapter is badlands by bruce springsteen

The alley door swung open with a creaking whine, about five minutes after Billy had pushed outside. It didn’t slam open, didn’t bang into the wall the way it had when Billy had violently shoved out through it. It was slow, almost polite by comparison.

“Think I can get one of those?” 

Billy nodded and dug the crumpled pack back out of his pocket and tossed it blindly toward the man. His hands shook, just a little, and the city was far too sticky-hot to blame it on any sort of chill.

The older man was slow in his movements, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. Billy’d never admit it outloud, but he appreciated the care. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Hopper lit up and took a long drag off the cigarette.

“Wanna tell me what happened in there?” Hopper asked, and leaned back against the rough brick next to him. Not _close_ , there was at least a foot of two of space between them, but close _enough_.

“Not really,” Billy said, truthfully, then shrugged. “But I suppose I owe you some kind of explanation.”

There was a sigh at his shoulder. It wasn’t a disappointed sound--or, not disappointed in _him_ in any case. “Kid, you don’t owe me _anything_. You don’t have to say shit if you don’t _want_ to. You don't have to say _why_ , I'd just like to know _what_. That's all. So I don't let it happen again."

 _What_ was still a loaded question.

 _What_ was that a couple of the guys Hopper had brought in, to help with the install, had fucked up. Billy hadn’t seen exactly _what_ they’d done, too busy hauling one of the booth benches in with Jon to pay much attention to the rest of the bodies flitting about the place.

But they’d fucked up. And they'd fucked up in a way that made him snap at them and _yell_. And _hell_ had he yelled. Loud and angry and sudden enough that Billy had _frozen_. Went stiff and still so fast his end of the bench had dropped from his hands and hit the floor with a deafening crack.

It was like everything stopped then, and it really had. _Everyone_ had eyes on him, every conversation stopped and every bit of work had ground to a halt so they could _stare_ at him in shock. 

And so he'd run.

He'd caught the sad, almost heartbroken look on Robin's face and he'd _run_.

Not far, just to the alley. He'd managed to stop himself before he made it to his car, but _just_.

But _what_ didn’t matter for shit, without some kind of _why_ , and Billy had promised he’d _try_. He’d promised he’d say the things that needed saying. Didn’t mean he’d be _happy_ about it, but he could make an effort. He could try.

“My dad was an army man, and a former police officer,” Billy said, and kept his eyes straight ahead. He stared at the parking lot behind the restaurant, sandwiched between two tall, brick buildings. Another selling point of the place. He scanned the cars parked there, his dark blue Rogue next to Robin's old, rickety silver Prius. There was a Kia next to that, bright green and boxy. He concentrated on the dirty headlights, the cracked windshield, the low tire on the driver's side. Anything to keep from thinking about Neil Hargrove any more than he had to. “Had a way about him, ya know? Didn't _have_ to yell to get a point across.”

“But when he _did_ …” Hopper trailed off, his tone one of understanding. He shook his head, sucked in another lung full of smoke. “Yeah, I had an old man like that, too. Mean old bastard.”

“Nicer than I’d have said it,” Billy muttered. The Kia had rust around the passenger's side wheel well, flaking and red.

“Fair. Nicer’n he _deserved_ , that’s for damn sure,” Hopper agreed. He reached over and gently nudged Billy's shoulder, “Nicer than _your_ father deserves, too.”

And he _did_ know that. He did. 

“The thing is, I _know_ you’re nothing like him,” Billy muttered, and dropped the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. He’d once promised Max he'd quit, had to keep following through on that. “Didn’t have to spend five minutes near you to know it. And Robin wouldn’t have left me alone with you if there was a chance of you being even a _fraction_ of what he was. She’s protective like that.”

At his shoulder, Hopper huffed a little laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Billy said, firmly. “But sometimes you sound like him. Not--not what you say, but the way you say it, sometimes. That _authority_ thing, the volume. Sets me on edge. Always has.”

Hopper winced, "I'm working on that. Hard thing to let go of."

“Don’t I know it,” Billy grumbled, but he’d started to relax again. 

Hopper lifted his cigarette in a sort of salute. “Here’s to battling demons,” he said, with a quiet chuckle. “I’ll try a little harder. Try to be quieter when I’m around.”

"I’m usually pretty okay with everything, but I still tend to bounce between fight and flight at the best of times," Billy muttered, because he might as well get it _all_ out. There was a BMW next to the Kia, an old rust bucket of a thing, in desperate need of a junkyard visit. "Depends whether or not I'm expecting it. If I'm waiting for it. Those are the times I usually fight back. That day you were here taking measurements and stuff; if you'd have yelled or something that day, we'd both probably walked away bleeding. But today..."

"You let your guard down, and I startled you," Hopper surmised and tossed his cigarette to the alley floor. "That about sum it up?"

"Yeah, just about. I froze up, and then all eyes were suddenly on me." He blew out a long breath, tilted his head back against the rough brick wall. It was a nice day, despite the humidity. Not as hot as it had been, not _boiling_. There were clouds gathering in the west, heavy and dark with rain. "Didn't realize how much I hated being _seen_ until I got used to goin' without it. Got used to living out from under a microscope again."

Hopper made a face. "Yeah, I can get that. Sorry, for what it's worth. Robin told me enough when she called me up. Not much, just to be quiet around you. Said I was _retired_ from the force, had better act like it."

"You did. For what it's worth. I was good up until _then_ , and it wasn't even _you_ that made me run. It was the--it was everyone else. If everyone had just carried on, I’d have been alright," he muttered, and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm okay now, though. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

He cast Hopper an annoyed look. "I don't need _babied_."

"No, but you might need a little peace and quiet," he argued, almost gently. "It's been a long day already, and it's only _ten_. So why don't you go hide in the kitchen and make everyone lunch, instead of us all ordering shitty takeout."

He narrowed his eyes at the man. "I'm not _hiding_. I'm being a good host."

"A _very_ good host," Hopper agreed, tone both amused and unconvinced. "You're doing such a good job."

"Alright, can it, _old man_. I'll get Subway if you keep mouthing off like that," Billy grumbled, but it didn't carry any heat. "I really am okay."

"Alright, alright, I'll back off and let you have this one," he said, gruff but _warm._ “But if you need ‘em out, I can send the local guys home. It’ll take longer, but the four of us can finish this up just fine.”

“I know, but I really am fine. I’ll swear it up and down if you need me to,” 

Hopper raised his hands in peace and turned away toward the door. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop fussing. I’ll see you in an hour or two, just yell when you’re ready for us.”

“I will. And you let me know if they keep fucking up and you need a hand,” Billy offered and followed him back in to the cool of the building. “Pulled pork quesadillas sound alright to you?”

“Kid, if they’re even half as good as those wings, I’ll be pleased as fucking _punch_ ,” Hopper assured him, and gently nudged him toward the kitchen door. “Go on now, keep out of trouble.”

“You’re _retired_ ,” Billy reminded him, and got scoff of a laugh for his troubles. He let the older man go, and paused in the kitchen doorway for a moment, just to watch. 

It wasn't finished, not by a longshot. Just one of the booths was installed, the tabletop up and the deep burgundy cushions ready for visitors. The bartop had been installed first thing that morning, and Hopper was still elbow deep in piecing together the siding, all thin strips of rough wood. Some pieces were weathered silver, others painted in chipping turquoise and gold, all of it meant to fit tight like puzzle pieces.

The hightops were still waiting outside in the trailer, the barstools, too. But the farmhouse table had been placed in the front alcove where it belonged. He could see Robin and Jon outside on the sidewalk as they each carried a stack of chairs and laughed at some joke together. In an hour or so, Nancy would arrive and start directing people this way and that. So that tables were arranged _just so_ , and that everything was as neat and in working order.

Everything smelled like sawdust and oak. There were voices echoing through the room, there was _laughter_. There was music from Hopper's radio, The Boss singing _that it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive,_ _I wanna find one face that ain't looking through me, I wanna find one place_ and everything around him was almost _bursting_ with life those old walls hadn’t known for a long time. 

The place wasn't even open yet, but it was loud and it was full. In a little while, it would smell like food, too. Like _his_ food. There would be _noise_ and laughter and _life_ between those walls. It would finally begin to feel a little closer to _right._


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another real short update, but i've had this chapter pretty much written since before i started posting this fic, i've just kept moving it back in the order! i just really enjoy writing drunk people. it's my jam

He, Jon and Nancy sat side-by-side, all of them watching on with disgust and _awe_. They were majestic, almost. Like drunk unicorns. Like a pegasus, too fat to fly. Dumb, majestic, and so fucking into each other that it physically pained him. The alcohol didn’t help. It didn’t help _any of them_. 

"Are they always like this?" Jon asked. He had both elbows on the shiny, new bartop, chin on his fists. There was a sea of empty glasses scattered around his elbows. 

It was Nancy who answered first, voice more than a little thick with drink. She was slouched over, leaning on one delicate elbow as she watched on in horrified fascination. She was working on a Pineapple-Rosemary Smash, something bright and sharp and herbal. "Somehow, the alcohol made it _worse._ So much worse."

"Liquor makes Heather stubborn and forward, and makes Robin stupid as _fuck_ ," Billy confirmed, throwing back he dregs of his… whatever it was. Heather had moved onto the warm drinks twenty minutes before, pushing drinks into hands with a speed that wasn’t natural. He thought she called it a _Tiddy_ something-or-other. It was late, he’d had more than he cared to count, he didn’t remember half the shit she’d given him. "It's ridiculous."

"They _do_ know they're into each other," Jon muttered into his Scotch Daisy, his frown deepening. "Don't they?"

"Nope, not a fucking clue."

" _Christ_." 

"You think _this_ is bad?" Nancy scoffed, "You should see the liquor order. She just kept shoving recipe cards in my face askin’ if I thought Robin’d like it."

"Robin made six entire desserts based on things she's heard Heather mention in passing," Billy griped. Down the bar, in the dim light, Heather was gently wiping a speck of whipped cream from the tip of Robin's nose. It was _disgusting_. "Please tell me you two were never that gross. I dunno if I could look either of you in the eye again if you were _ever_ that gross."

Jon made a face. "Nope."

"Thank _god_ ," Nancy grumbled, and lifted one of her drinks toward her husband in a wobbly sort of salute.

It had been a long day for all of them, because no single liquor store in the greater Chicago area could possibly carry everything that Heather had decided she needed. It meant they had all headed out to search every store they could find, all while Billy was chained to the kitchen with a list of sherbets and syrups and every kind of mixer Heather wanted made. It was certainly _quieter_ , but he didn't think the scent of citrus would wash out of his fingertips for at least a few weeks.

But, he supposed, the night was worth the work.

The lights were supposed to be installed sometime Monday, so the bar was still dark. Lit up by the orange-gold of the streetlights outside and the bright kitchen lights streaming out of the open doorway. It wasn't the most _romantic_ of lighting, but it didn't seem to put much of a hamper on the proceedings.

Heather pushed another cocktail across the bartop, this one in a delicate porcelain cup. Billy knew the move well. Heather had tested it, halfheartedly, on many a pretty girl back in New York. She would lean close, push the cup forward as she stared her prey in the eye. She'd say something sultry about an _English Rose_ , make a thinly veiled comparison to the poor girl's complexion and wander to the next patron with a fat tip and a number she didn't plan to call.

But her gaze on _Robin_ was soft and warm. She wasn't playing for tips, didn't need to win a number she already had. _This_ wasn't a game.

She ducked her head a little, nudged the cup into Robin's hand. "This one's called an English Rose," she said, voice low and soft.

And the main problem, the _actual_ problem, was simple: Robin was allergic to roses. Not the _blotchy hives-swollen throat-gimme an epipen-someone, oh god, someone call an ambulance, she's dying_ kind of allergic, thank god. It was more of an _immediate sneezing-coughing-hacking-leaking mucus from every hole in her face_ kind of allergic. 

And he _could_ stop the train wreck, of course. But stopping might have led to Heather getting cold feet, might have made her lose her rhythm and her nerve. But if he _didn't_ stop it, Robin might never forgive him for allowing Heather to see her dripping _like that_.

What, oh what, was a boy to do?

He fished a coin out of his pocket and tossed it up high, "Call it."

Jon blinked at him, but Nancy, even six cocktails in and wobbling dangerously, was quick on the uptake. "Tails."

He caught it. It was heads. He sighed and pushed off his stool. The cup was millimeters away from touching her lips by the time he pulled it from her hand. 

"Hey, give it!" She punched him in the ribs with her damn bony knuckles, and flailed to grab the drink back from him.

"Ah, ah, nope. Rose infused gin, Buckles," he said, reasonably. He gave Heather an apologetic look, and inwardly cursed as he watched her sort of curl in on herself. "She's allergic to roses. Why don't you make her that pear and tequila thing, instead? It won't turn her nose into a faucet and tequila makes her something something country music sucks, but you get my point."

Robin yowled indignantly and smacked his shoulder. "Hey, fuck you!"

"Buckles, I'm being _very_ forgiving right now because I know Sober Morning Robin will be forever thankful that I saved her from looking like a leaky tap in front of her future wife," Billy said, and backed out of hitting range. "But if you hit me one more time, I will dump this down your shirt, do not test me."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'd have been _fine._ "

"You wouldn't have and I'd never hear the fuckin’ end of it," he said, rolling his eyes. He gave Heather a pleading look, "Put her out of my misery, Holloway, _please_. I’m begging you."

Heather, absolute _doll_ that she was, was blushing, but she'd cottoned on. Her cheeks were ruddy and hot, even under the low lights, but she was grinning. Lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes glittery and giddy. 

He leveled a _look_ at her. "Don't break anything and don't sully any surface you aren't prepared to disinfect. You got me? And, for the love of _god_ , sober up a little first."

She gave him a salute, eyes bright and giddy. "Sure thing, boss man."

Robin, the poor dear, didn't appear to be following the thread. So Billy decided to pull a _Billy of old_ and waggled his tongue at her, snapped his teeth, threw back his stolen drink like he was still back in school. _Fuck_ , he hated rose. He tugged The Byers Duo off their stools as he passed and led a small parade out the back exit, leaving the two dumbasses to their own devices.

In the morning, he woke to four texts from three women. One _Sorry_ , one _Thank you_ , and one string of curses followed directly by a screenshot of a shopping list for ten new glasses, six plates, one vase, one stool and a skillet.

All in all, it sounded like they had a pretty good time.

Fucking _finally_.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song playing is kiss you to death by alkaline trio

Once Billy found a rhythm to his work, he found it easy to lose himself in it. Lose himself in page after page of saucepans and teaspoons, in measurements and ingredients that reminded him of stories and memories and places far away. 

A slow-roasted pork butt that he made for Robin, when they were both far from home and in need of a little comfort. A sweet plum and hazelnut galette he’d made for a pretty boy in his Paris apartment, that reminded him of the scent of autumn and pretty brown eyes. Orange-blossom semolina thumbprints, filled with sweet dates and pistachios--inspired by the maamoul he’d learned from a small Armenian woman he’d met when he’d lost himself out backpacking on a whim. She’d reminded him of Robin, all quick wit and mischief, as they traded barbs in her broken English, and his even more broken Russian. The sweet loaf of quick-bread he’d make for Max’s breakfasts, that year they’d spent in Boston. Something that tasted more expensive and special than it was, all tart cherries and dark chocolate and the dry, fragrant heat of back pepper.

When he slowed down to look for them, the good parts of his past were far easier to find than he’d ever known them to be at a glance. Maybe not as big as the bad ones, not as loud and obvious, but they were there and they were still bright and warm safely tucked away. 

It made the task far less daunting than it had been at the start. If anything, it served as a gentle reminder that he could create without destruction. That he didn’t have to tear down to build himself something, didn’t have to rely on his anger. That he could be the man who deserved what he’d built himself. That he could be even half the man that Max and Robin seemed convinced he could one day be. 

That he could be the man Steve seemed to think he was.

So he worked. Spread his notebooks and laptop out in front of him and whittled his fingertips down to the bone with the speed with which he typed. It was good work, distracting and soothing in equal measure. Easy enough to hold his attention between checking the lamb shoulder he had roasting in the oven, the kitchen warms with the cloying scents of rosemary and honey. Distracting enough to keep his attention on his work and away from his kitchen window, especially as the day drew on into evening.

He wanted to watch, _of course_ he wanted. In no universe that would ever exist was there even the _slightest_ possibility that we _wouldn't_ want to stand at his kitchen window and simply _watch_ Steve work. And to watch him work in the comfort and familiarity of his own kitchen was an even greater temptation.

But his desire to let Steve have his night won out, in the end. He wanted to give him a chance to do what Billy already _knew_ that he could. Wanted to let him do it on his own. 

He kept his kitchen light on, though, just in case. Left it bright, let it shine out into the slowly swelling night like a beacon, just to let Steve know that he was at least _there_. That he was close, if Steve needed him. That he wouldn't _truly_ make him go it alone, if he really thought he couldn't.

It must have been comfort enough. Steve never once called in a panic, and Billy got lost in his work. Got lost in the easy flow of words and measurements. Got lost in stories he wanted to one day tell Steve, and memories he hoped to share. Spared enough time to place cookies into the still-warm oven and imagined the flutter of Steve’s eyelashes and the warm scent of ginger and sticky-sweet apricots.

He'd made a mountain of work for himself, but it was an easy thing to lose himself in. To while down the hours with only his book for company and a soundtrack of oven timers, the distant rumble of traffic, and a little Chicago punk. 

And it was-- _nice_. It was really nice, easy. He wouldn’t ever admit to Robin that her pushing and shoving had worked, but her good-natured bullying had always had a way of kicking him into gear. Kept him hip deep in recipes until the night had fallen around him. Outside, it was dark. The oven had cooled, but the warm scent of ginger cookies hadn’t faded. His tea had long gone cold at his elbow, forgotten hours before. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, no longer any fun joy to be wrung from the task without company. 

He had a soundtrack of electric guitars, rather than the fiddles and banjos he’d been inundated with since his move to the midwest. Instead, he had a voice softly singing _I don't care if we fuck, or we talk, or we cry, I just miss you_ when a quick knock sounded from the door. 

Which was strange, but it really _wasn't_. 

A quick glance at the oven clock read just past nine. Which meant dinner was over and done, and Steve's friends likely gone home for the night, bellies full and happy. Which meant Steve had probably packed up a serving to share, proof that he had done what he'd set out to do, that he’d done good. That he’d hurried over with a spring in his step.

Bill imagined him standing in the doorway, with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. He'd be _giddy_ , he'd be bouncing on the balls of his feet, wiggling in place like an excited puppy.

It was motivation enough to spur Billy out of his seat.

Steve was panting a little, where he stood, like he'd foregone the elevator and just run himself right on up the stairs. His hair was a little more windswept than usual, cheeks a little flushed, half the collar of his polo haphazardly flipped up and crooked. He had a tupperware container in his hands, ready for inspection, just as Billy suspected he would.

He was _grinning_ , a proud thing, all wide and blinding. It lit him up from the inside, set his amber eyes glittering and bright. He was practically _vibrating_ , nothing but pure excitement written over every inch of him.

And Billy felt his own matching grin stretch across his lips, because _fuck_ was he proud. _Of course_ he was. And about the time he opened his mouth to say that, Steve dropped everything and _moved_ and Billy suddenly had his arms _full_ and, and--

And it kind of, mostly, _really_ wasn't _exactly_ what Billy had imagined it would be like, kissing Steve _fucking_ Harrington. It was _better._

His hands were calloused, rough in a way that Billy hadn't noticed before. Not just the writer's callouses he expected, not the lifter's callouses across his palms, like Billy's own. The pads of his fingertips were rough, tickled over his cheeks and his temple, made him shiver and sent his knees wobbling. Sent him teetering, until he could do nothing but wrap his arms around Steve's back and just _hold on_.

And, _god_ , he was _warm,_ burned oven-hot where he pressed against Billy's chest, where his palms were warm on Billy’s cheeks, where he pressed his mouth to Billy’s. He tasted like mint and traces of blueberries and tart white wine. He smelled like apricot brandy and fresh cracked pepper, every bit of the sweetness and spice Billy had come to know.

For all his _enthusiasm_ , for all that he'd damn near _launched_ himself at Billy, he was _gentle_. All slick heat and velvet. His hands didn't push or pull or tug Billy this way and that; he held Billy close, held him secure, a hand cradled against the back of his head, a wide palm pressed flat to the small of Billy's back. Wrapped himself around Billy as best he could, held him safe and--

And Billy was in _heaven_. 

And it was over much too quick.

Steve ripped himself away and jumped back, cheeks bright red and eyes _wide_ , and left Billy off balance and unsteady. And, _fuck_ , his lips were red and slick and too far away for Billy's taste. "I, uh, I did it. I made dinner." He folded an arm across his chest, pressed a hand to his mouth, stared at Billy in something close to shock.

And Billy? He couldn't think a damn thing besides _blueberries_. "I'm sorry, I think you broke, uh…" he paused and felt himself frown as he searched for the right words, " _me_."

"I'm so _sorry_ ," Steve muttered, voice muffled into his palms. "I just--I'm sorry I just jumped you like that. I should have, like, _asked_ first, but you opened the door, and you look like _that_ \--"

"Like what?" he asked, dumbly.

Steve gestured, frantically, at him. " _That_ ! All--all _soft_ and shit! With your--with that hoodie and your _hair_ , all fuzzy and fuckin' _cozy_."

And Billy didn't think he looked much of anything. Not with his hair all frizzy, not in the stained, ratty Everlast hoodie that had followed him halfway across the world and back. Not anything worth a second look, not barefoot in sweatpants and unwashed. He felt hungover still, felt like he definitely looked it. He didn't feel like anything worth writing home about, but Steve didn't stop talking.

"You just opened the door looking like _that_ ! Fucking _lovely._ Like--like someone I just want to curl up in," Steve said, almost helplessly. " _God_ , you don't even _know_ , Billy! Every single time you open this door, it-it's like my brain just short circuits. Like everything stops, and it's just _you_. And you-you're just standing here looking _that_ , like a fucking _dream_ , and my brain said _kiss_ and--"

"Yeah, yeah. It did. _You_ sure, uh, did."

Steve groaned and pressed his face further into his palms. " _Fuck_ , I-I'm sorry, I should have _asked--_ "

"So ask me now," Billy said, mouth working to his advantage, before his brain had quite caught up or caught on.

Steve looked up, almost bewildered. "What?"

Billy shifted closer, until he could feel Steve's warmth on his face, pulling him in close and closer. "You didn't ask the first time," he murmured, voice low and quiet. He reached out and gently tugged the worn hem of his polo, gave Steve a little smile. "So ask me _now_."

Steve stared at him for a long moment, before his expression shifted. His kiss-bitten lips shifted into something closer to a smile, something a little less shy, a little more confident, a little more sly. His eyes stayed locked with Billy's, that same wide-eyed sort of _wonder_ that Billy had come to love so much.

Fingertips strayed to the edge of Billy's sweats, traced the edge of the waistband where it stretched across his belly. Tickled his way over the point on Billy's hip, fitted a wide, warm hand over his waist. 

"Can I--"

"Yes, _please_ , fucking kiss me," Billy breathed out, and caught Steve in his arms.

  
  
  


"I don't think they believed that I really cooked anything. I think they thought I bought it and just, like, _reheated_ it," Steve murmured, and watched on worriedly. His foot--his entire right leg, really--jiggled like he wanted to anxiously bounce it up and down. He was sitting on the countertop, next to the stove, dressed in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt he’d stolen from Billy and ginger cookie crumbs. His hair was a little worse for wear, and Billy didn't feel an _ounce_ of remorse about that. "Which is a _big_ improvement from my usual skills, and I do think they _were_ impressed by that, at least, but I don't--"

" _Steve_?"

"Yeah?"

Billy leaned over and pressed a kiss to the ball of Steve's shoulder. And then another, because he wanted to. And _another_ , just because he _could_. "I was here when you cooked this on Thursday, _and Friday_. I know that you can do it, I know you _did_ do it, and I know that this is gonna be good."

The fight left Steve in an instant and he relaxed again, his shoulders dropping. "Okay, fine, know what you know, but at _least_ eat it tomorrow," Steve begged. "I brushed my teeth like six times before coming over and I'm not kissing you anymore tonight if you taste like _fish_."

Billy laughed and rolled his eyes, but dutifully wrapped the dish back up and placed it into the fridge. He cast an unimpressed look at Steve, hands on his hips. “Happy now?”

“I will be when you come back,” Steve said, sing-song and teasing. 

He chuckled and moved closer, as close as he could get, just because he _could_. Billy pressed his palms flat to the counter on either side of his hips, slotted himself between Steve's knees. He leaned close, close enough to press a short kiss to the corner on Steve's mouth, and then another. "Hey."

Another of those blinding smiles, a little less shy than before. "Hey." 

"You're real cute, you know that?"

" _Me_?" Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes. He gently bopped Billy on the nose, "Look who's talking, buddy."

Billy snapped his teeth at Steve's fingertips, just to get a laugh out of him. It had taken him years to relearn _touch_. Took him years to remember what it was like to be touched kindly, and touch in return. 

But Steve made it easy. 

He lifted his hands to Steve's hips, because he _could_. Because he _wanted to_. 

"I've got a confession," Steve murmured, and ducked his head. "I, uh, watched you for more than just your cooking."

“Me, too.” Billy chuckled a little and felt his cheeks heat at having to actually admit it out loud. 

“You _what_?”

"Steve, you _do_ know that I could see you, too. Don't you?" Billy asked, and had to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing when Steve froze. "Weird, how windows work like that."

“Oh, _hush_ ! No wisdom, remember?” He lightly slapped Billy's bare shoulder, then leaned in and soothed the spot with a kiss, seemingly just because he could. "What made you choose this apartment? Like, of all of Chicago, why _this_ building?"

"Property manager gave me a tour of this place in the evening--and I'll swear up and down, to anyone that asks, that it was the pantry and kitchen that made me sign the lease," Billy murmured, and gently squeezed Steve's waist. "I even tell myself that when I don't want to feel like too much of a _creep_ \--but it was _you_. Looked out the window and saw _you_ , fanning smoke out of your face, and I signed the paperwork, like, ten minutes later."

"How, um, how long have you lived here?" Steve asked, hands twisting and tangling in the drawstring on Billy's sweats. His cheeks were red and hot enough Billy swore he could feel the heat on his own face.

"Been in the city for awhile, but I moved in _here_ a few months ago.”

"And you've been watching me for all that time?"

"Every single time I got the chance."

“Sounds _boring_ ,” Steve chuckled, but his cheeks were dark and only getting darker.

"It _wasn’t_ . Watching you was… _enlightening_. I imagined every single possible scenario for meeting you." Billy bent and pressed a line of kisses along the length of his clavicle. "What we might reach for at the market, and our hands would just _brush_. What book I might catch you reading at the used book shop, the--"

"The one with Tubbs the Tabby," Steve finished, with a shiver, and Billy didn't have to see him to hear the _grin_ in his voice. He brought a hand up to thread into Billy's hair, another up to gently cradle his jaw. The pad of his thumb gently brushed across Billy's cheek, soothing and slow.

"I spent a lot of time wondering what you'd order across the street. Wondering how you'd take your coffee," he murmured, and gently scraped his teeth against the long column of Steve's throat. "Imagined buying you a drink, somewhere. Sauntering up to you at the bar, using some dumb line just to make you laugh. I imagined just… bumping into you on the street, maybe, as we both left in the morning."

"And h-how do I stack up?" Steve asked, breaths hitched. " _Ah_ -against your fantasy, I mean. How do I compare?"

"So, so much _better_ than any version of you I could've imagined," Billy said, fiercely, and pulled back enough to look Steve in the eye because he needed him to _know_ . He gently squeezed Steve's waist. Then slid his hands down over the sharp jut of his hipbones, smoothed down over his bare thighs. " _You_ are _real_. You're _here_. You're not some two-dimensional fantasy, you're--you're _you_ , Steve. There _is_ no comparison."

Steve watched him with another of those wide-eyed looks, something like _wonder_ written across his face. His thumb swiped across Billy's cheekbone, across his brow, gently pressed at his temple. And then those clever fingers tickled down the curve of his jaw, and those bourbon brown eyes followed the path intently. "I think you should take me back to bed," Steve whispered, fingertip tracing Billy's bottom lip. 

"Yeah?"

Steve pulled his own plump lower lip back between his teeth for a long moment and nodded. "I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer."

Billy chuckled, and teasingly chased those clever fingers for a kiss. "And why not?"

"You're being too goddamn _sweet_ , for one," Steve murmured, eyes still intent on Billy's mouth. "Too _romantic_. It's really…"

Billy grinned, couldn't have helped himself otherwise. " _Really_ …?"

Those big brown eyes flicked back up to Billy's, his cheeks reddened and warm. "Really _distracting_."

"Yeah, but I can be distracting right _here_ ," he murmured and pointedly slid his palms an inch or two further up Steve's thighs. "What if I just want to take you right now?"

"Oh, Billy, you're gonna _take me_ , regardless," Steve began with a sly smirk, and stretched forward. He leaned down into Billy's space, slowly slid his arms over Billy's shoulders, slipped one hand back up into Billy's hair and gently _tugged_. "Because you're bein' just so _nice_ , and _sweet_ , and just so goddamn _lovely_ that I'd really like to get my mouth on you. And you're gonna take me to _bed_ , because I don't think you really wanna stay here and give the neighbors a show."

And Billy froze because _jesus fucking christ_ , he had a point. 

" _Weird_ ," Steve teased, and broke Billy out of his momentary panic, "how windows work like that."

And then he ducked his head and snorted on a laugh, the illusion of _seduction_ shattered into a bright smile and bubbly laughter.

He was _goofy_ again. Every inch the man who liked to stick his tongue out when Billy's back was turned, and blow raspberries when it wasn't. Who liked to flick suds at him when he stayed over late to help with the dishes. Who teased and comforted in the same breath, and had enough warmth within him to bundle Billy up safe.

He liked that, liked that Steve could be _both_. Could be all of that and _more_. Could be _everything_. 

"Well, if I'm taking you all the way back to bed," he began, and pushed his hands beneath Steve's thighs, "I suppose you better hang on, then."

Steve scrunched his nose, tilted his head in confusion. "What? Why?"

He yelped as Billy yanked him from the countertop. But his long legs wrapped tight around Billy's waist, and his arms clung to Billy's shoulders, and he threw his head back and _laughed_ , loud and free and happy. And Billy leaned close and peppered kiss after kiss to each and every bit of skin he could reach, just because he _could_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want it on record that i am asexual and not overly fond of--or good at--writing sex, so y'all don't get a peak into the bedroom for this fic cuz i don't really want to make it not fun for me to write, but rest assured: it was good. they did it good. the sex i mean. they're real good at the bedsheet boogie. 
> 
> also, please let me know if i used the wrong spelling of maamoul! i was certain the armenian variety was spelled that way, but the internet has lied to me before
> 
> also, to everyone who continues to stick it out with me and this here fic: thank you <33 i don't say it enough, but you're all great and i'd take a bullet for each and every one of you


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, sorry this one took so long. i haven't been in a great place lately, on top of the hellscape that is 2020, so finishing this chapter kinda kicked my ass to hell and back. also, sorry if i don't respond to your lovely comments. i'm going to try to, because i like talking to and hearing from you all, but i just haven't had a lot of energy for that lately. i'm sorry <33 i love you all tho and i always love hearing from you
> 
> also benny is alive because it's my au and i said so. barb is alive, too, for the record, we just haven't made it there yet.
> 
> oh and there is a prequel kind of fic called [to carry within us an orchard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020060) of billy and robin being young and dumb in school!
> 
> as always you can come say hi on [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) if you don't mind my emotional support wrestling bs
> 
> <333

Steve had left him with kisses--hundreds and hundreds of them, it felt--each of them tinged with borrowed toothpaste and strong coffee. He'd been an absolute mess, hair unwashed and jaw prickly with stubble, shoved into dirty jeans and a stolen shirt. He'd left barefoot, bleary-eyed, and just about the best thing Billy'd seen in a long, long while.

Between those kisses, he'd promised to be over just as soon as he could get out of the office--and left behind a trail of chaos in his wake. But it was one that Billy was more than happy to clean up. 

His day-old dirty dishes were still stacked high in the sink, his cold tea still sat on the counter, next to the mug Steve had hastily emptied in his morning scramble. They'd knocked over a chair at some point, probably kicked over by Steve's dangling feet as Billy had carried him back to bed. He'd left a sock in the hallway, flung off in their haste the night before. Steve's polo had gone flying across the bedroom--and cleared the clustered timers, photos and alarm clock all off his nightstand with the force of it. Billy's sweats were still lying in a tangled heap in the bathroom doorway, his hoodie caught on the doorknob where it had been tossed away. 

He still couldn't find Steve's second sock.

But his pillowcase smelled like citrus and spice and the sweet, natural scent of Steve’s skin. His bed was rumpled and messy, sheet corners turned up and duvet twisted. Like it was lived in, shared. Didn't look _lonely_ the way it usually did in the mornings, so big and wide and only half-used.

Billy liked it. He liked the way his apartment looked with Steve written all over it. Hoped to hell and back that it was something he’d have long enough to get used to.

He righted his zoo of timers and reset his clock, but he paused on the photos. They looked small in his hands, but they were big, and they were important. He’d always slept with them close by, if only because he never stayed anywhere long enough to really settle, to spread out. Always had one foot out the door, so he kept the most important things close.

But he was _staying_ , he’d found himself some kind of a home to settle himself into. Come hell or high water, Chicago was going to be _it_ , and he didn’t need to be ready to run at the drop of a hat. Not anymore.

He flattened them against his chest as he walked out of his room and a plan started to slowly form in front of him. 

His livingroom was large, far too much space for his taste. There was a fireplace that he didn't give two entire shits about, but one with a long mantle that he'd yet to find a use for.

He had other photos packed away, stacks and stacks of them. Enough to fill a _book_ , to fill a gallery wall, let alone enough to fill a fireplace mantle. He looked at the snapshots in his hand, pictured them lined up and cluttering the mantle. Imagined the rest of his photos, finally with a place to live, plastered up walls and shelves.

He imagined all the new photos he wanted to take, how they would fit with the life he'd kept packed away. How Steve would look amongst his most precious keepsakes and memories. 

He wiped away the thin layer of dust that had been left there from months of disuse and gently placed the photos on the mantle.

  
  


Billy couldn't wipe the smile off his face, he really couldn't. He would try to tamp it down, school his features back into something a little closer to indifferent, but then he would catch a lingering whiff of Steve's cologne on his shirt or remember the warmth of lips on his cheek, and he would melt a little.

He probably looked some kind of crazy. Probably had _Steve_ written across his face, written into his skin in a way that wouldn't wash out. Just a single _look_ at him and the world would know, everyone would know. 

_Robin_ would know-- _and_ give him endless shit about it.

And he felt endless _guilt_ that he wanted to keep it all from her. Wanted to keep Steve for himself, for just a bit longer. Just until he was _sure_ , until he _knew_ , until he was certain Steve really wanted to _stay_.

He wouldn't have minded, of course. Not really. He had a hard time keeping things from Robin, try as he might to lie to himself about his massive soft spot for her. And she had a bit of a protective streak in her, one that bordered on _mean_ when she wanted. He didn't know what he'd do if she ended up hating Steve. She _wouldn't_ , wasn't even a possibility--but if she _did_ , Billy didn't have the slightest clue what he'd do.

Thankfully though, when he arrived late in the afternoon--once he'd been given the all clear that she was finished with interviews--he found Robin slumped over the counter. Her forehead was pressed to the cool metal, as she spoke on the phone. Well- _-spoke_ was a poor choice of word for what, exactly, it was that she was doing. Slowly, quietly, methodically verbally ripping someone a new asshole would've been much more accurate. 

And, while he was also very angry at being charged for a missing order of silverware that hadn't even shipped, he definitely didn't want _that_ turned on himself. He made a strategic retreat to the dining room to find some busy work. The least he could do was begin to organize Heather's bitters station, if only because she liked to have a reason to complain about his system.

He never quite made it that far, though.

His first sight upon entering the dining room was Hopper, arms crossed over his chest. His stance was deliberately relaxed, deliberately meant to look _bored_. But he was tense beneath it all, all his focus intent on the proceedings before him. There was a bald man at his shoulder who, by comparison, seemed entirely unbothered. He wasn’t tense in the least, his posture easy, hands in his pockets.

There was someone stood next to them, far more relaxed and unconcerned than either of them. They looked small in their sweater, a loose thing that hung off sharp, skinny shoulders. Their arms were crossed loosely across their chest, hip cocked to one side, head tilted in consideration. 

The second sight was the young woman--Jane, he remembered from the photos Hopper had shown of her work--standing on a precarious stepladder atop of the bar, and he finally understood Hopper's concern as the thing wobbled and his own heart gave a jolt. She didn't seem concerned in the least, unphased and completely immersed in her work. She had a mop of shoulder-length curls, a plaid shirt tied around her waist, chunky sneakers that threw Billy back to his childhood.

And then, finally, the _lights_. All of them, everywhere, dripping down from the high, cavernous ceiling.

The _chandelier_ that she was working on was _wild._ A long, thick plank of rough wood, not quite the length of the bar, hung from the ceiling. He could see a multitude of lights hanging from it, each long strand dotted with a delicate bulb. Alone, without the lights on, it looked terrifying, almost. A tangled mess of vines and dangling roots, like some kind of _monster_ dropping from the ceiling. But he could picture it, the pinpoints of light at the end of each dangling arm. It was-- _beautiful_. And _strange_ , and not all all what he expected. 

And _then_ he noticed everything else.

There were lights everywhere, hanging on long strands from the ceiling, some from smaller wood and pipe chandeliers. Some ended in simple bulbs, some with cages--and each of those different from the last. Some ended in geometric shapes, like jewel facets, and some twisted down like delicate roots, or spiked like lightning. 

The chandelier in the window stretched almost the length of the table. It was a little more delicate than the others, the wood plank much thinner than the one that hung over the bar. The bulbs were smaller, more delicate and dainty. They didn't hang down quite like vines, like the rest, more like a _waterfall_. Like shooting stars, like--

"Fireflies."

He jumped a little, and glanced at the young man suddenly in front of him. "What?"

He smiled and motioned toward the ceiling, toward the lights. "Fireflies," he said again.

"Right, yeah," Billy said, dumbly, and glanced back at the chandelier in the window. "Fireflies."

"Felt right for the space," he said, with an easy shrug, like it wasn’t even a big deal.

"Yeah, I think you're right about that." Billy nodded as he tried to take in every inch of the place. When he glanced back, the kid was smiling at him, all soft and--and not _smug_ , but proud. "Will?"

He nodded and offered a charcoal-smudged hand and a brilliant smile, nearly as wide as he was tall, "And you must be Billy."

"Yeah, it's good to meet you, finally," Billy said. " _God_ , this is…” It should have been busy and overcrowded, but it wasn't. Overwhelming, maybe. 

Up on the bartop, Jane hopped herself down the wobbling ladder and Billy--along with Hopper, if the older man’s flinch and aborted reach toward her were anything to go by--just about had a heart attack. But she didn’t seem concerned by the danger in the slightest. She jumped off the bar and onto the floor, before anyone could move to offer a hand, and laughed at the look on Hopper's face as she moved up to Billy's side.

“Ready?” Jane asked, quietly, and gave Billy a great big smile, and he just nodded a little helplessly. Let himself get pulled along in the tide.

"We had Benny install a dimmer switch for each section, so you can run the front, bar and main area independently," Will said, and lead them back toward the doorway. And sure enough, there were switches there, each neatly labeled and easy enough to figure out. 

The room lit up in constellations. Bright and twinkling like a midwest summer, like a starry sky, like fields of goddamn fireflies. Otherworldly in an empty restaurant dining room. 

"This is…" 

At his shoulder, Jane helpfully offered, "Bitchin'."

He laughed, more than a little helplessly, and nodded at the young woman. "Yeah. _Bitchin'_."

She gave him a pleased little grin, and extended a hand. It was strong, work rough and calloused. Sculpture, that's what Hopper had shown him. Massive, menacing monsters of steel, nightmare creatures bent and manipulated to her will. “Nice to meet you,” she said, politely, voice small for how much she seemed to carry within her.

“Yeah, you, too.”

Above them, a second sky glittered.

He caught himself wondering how Steve would look beneath the lights. Leaning against the bar, a drink in hand; tucked against Billy's shoulder in a booth, laughing and red-cheeked; sitting at the table in the front window, smiling across at Billy, their hands tangled between them. 

Thought about all those miles and miles of pale skin, turned gold in the low lights. Thought about how dark his eyes would go, turning to pools of bourbon, all dark and sweet. 

He wondered what Steve would even think of it all, the hanging vines and lightning bugs.

If he would look up and see stars, the way Billy did.

"How in the _hell_ do you just--look at this place and just think up…" He trailed off again, staring up at the lights. They glittered like starlight, like _fireflies_. "This is not what I expected. Not at all."

Jane tilted her head in consideration, a small frown on her face. "Good?"

" _Better_ ," he said, vehemently, and she grinned at him. He looked up at the twinkling lights again, "This is amazing."

"Told you," Hopper said, and stepped up to their little group. He looked _proud_ , smiling at the two kids. He _was_ proud, too. He’d eagerly shown Billy photos of their work, of massive sculptures of metal and light, and terrifying drawings of darkness that took up whole gallery walls. He’d made allusions to traumas and dark things, all while talking about growth and _strength_ , and his voice had been beyond proud. Hell, Billy had barely known them longer than a few minutes, and he was proud, too.

"Yeah, you fuckin' did," Billy said, still a little awed as he looked between the new and familiar faces. "I cannot thank you enough for this."

"Well, you're payin' 'em, I think that's the usual amount of thanks needed."

"I'll pay double," Billy said, immediately.

"None of that, c'mon now," Hopper laughed, but he gave Billy a hopeful sort of look. "How about some dinner, instead?" 

"Yep, yes. Anytime any of you are close, it's on me," Billy agreed, instantly.

They all chuckled a little, hopeful and greedy, but it was Hopper that rolled his eyes. "Kid, _no_ , that's not how you run a business."

Billy just pointed toward the ceiling and gave him a wide-eyed, imploring look. "Have you _seen this shit_?"

An amused sigh, a huff of a laugh, a fond shake of his head, while the kids just beamed. "Fine, dinner _today_ , but I'm not gonna let you--"

"You shut the fuck up," he snapped, and waggled a finger in Hopper's amused face. "Your money's no good here, old man."

It got a laugh out of him, loud in a way that didn’t send Billy running, but warmed him up instead. All of them were laughing or smiling and it was weird, but it was nice. A skinny shoulder shook against his own, and he turned a narrow eyed look on the younger man. 

"I dunno why you're laughing, kid, your cards declining, too," Billy grumbled, just to watch little Will laugh a little more. He pointed at the bald man and his amused face, "I don't even know _you_ , but you ain't payin' either."

The man chuckled, warm and easy, and extended a hand, "Benny, good to meet you. Seems like we just keep missing each other."

"You do good work," Billy said, like he had any idea what an electrician actually did, but it made the man laugh good naturedly. There was an electricity thrumming in his finger tips, a spark that had him aching to _create_. To make something, _anything_. To put the lights to use. "I am _floored_ , this is-- _shit_ , this is amazing."

It was overwhelming. One step closer to being finished. One step closer to opening. It didn't just _feel_ real, it _was_ . It wasn't all just some kind of dream anymore. The only thing missing was people--and he had a group of _those_ gathered around at the ready, anyway.

"Well, shit, lemme get some dinner whipped up for you," Billy said, plans already swirling in his head of what he could make, what he wanted to share. What would go any bit of the way toward repaying them. He was startled by a gentle touch to his arm.

"Can we help?" Jane asked, all wide, imploring eyes and a big smile, and he wondered if anyone could ever say no to her.

" _No_. You two _promised_ you would help Benny clean up for once," Hopper said, arms crossed sternly over his chest. "Remember?"

" _But_ ," Will argued, a bit of a mischievous grin on his face, "if we help, then dinner will be ready a lot sooner."

At Billy's other shoulder, Jane nodded. 

And Billy enjoyed a bit of mischief, himself. "They're not wrong, it _would_ be faster."

Benny just laughed, good naturedly, and clapped Hopper on the shoulder as he turned away. "Looks like you got another one." 

Hopper just rolled his eyes and waved them off toward the kitchen, " _Fine_ , you three go goof off and _we_ will clean up. Like the responsible adults we are."

It was Jane who placed a gentle hand on Hopper's arm, her face open and innocent. He was beginning to think it wasn't entirely an act, just a small piece of her she'd learned to weaponize. "Don't forget to sweep," she said, sweetly, and then linked her arm through Billy's. 

He let himself be pulled away to the sound of Hopper's booming laugh and Will's giggle at his other shoulder.

It wasn't like cooking with Steve, wasn't as intimate, but it was just as warm. His kitchen was crowded and it spilled over with life and laughter. He had a new friend at each shoulder, ones who didn't seem to care who Billy was or what he had done. They just wanted to steal treats out from under his nose and make as big of a mess as they could.

Hopper and Benny crowded in once they'd finished their work, pilfered beers in hand. Jon and Nancy arrived not long after, and then Heather with a drink tray and a smile. 

It was a strange thing, to hear voices echoing off the walls of the place. To hear enough laughter for the whole place to feel _full_. They were a long way out from opening the doors, but the warmth that carried him from the heat of the kitchen to the glittering light of the dining room to the sun-warmed alcove in the front window was enough to tide him over. The brush of shoulders as places were set and food was passed around, like the kind of thanksgivings he’d always dreamed of having, instead of quiet and cold. The struggle to hear or be heard over the swell of voices.

"What are you smiling about?" Heather asked, leaned into Billy's shoulder. He was warm inside and out, Heather tucked down against one side, Robin on the other. Nancy and Jon were next to her, and they’d spent most of the meal playfully arguing with Jane and Will across the table. Benny had taken up the head of the table, dragged into the proceedings as a moderator of sorts. Hopper had posted up across from Billy, relaxed and happy enough just watching on.

He thought about the lights that glittered overhead, new and strange. The scent of charred meat and sweet barbeque. The taste of gin on his tongue from the _strong_ cocktails Heather had handed out when she arrived, the tart bite of citrus and sugar-sweet graham cracker of the key lime slices that Robin had passed out before anyone could protest.

The table was crowded, the small alcove loud with laughter and the scrape of silver on ceramic. 

He had a pretty girl tucked beneath each arm, and something like _friends_ crammed in all around him. The restaurant wasn’t full, but the table was. Billy’s chest was.

His face almost ached, his smile so big and wide.

He gave a happy sigh and dropped his head to rest atop Heather’s. He felt her knuckles against his back, her hand tangled with Robin’s. "Just been a real good day," he said, and hugged them both a little tighter to his sides.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna wait a bit to post this chapter, until i made a little more headway on some of the unfinished future chapters.. but this chapter has been finished almost since i started writing this fic and got kinda fed up with waiting to post it. so, surprise! 
> 
> BUT, mooooooost of the rest of the chapters are finished. there are one or two key chaos that need finished and filled it, but we're in the home stretch, folks.
> 
> heads up, the next update will be a double update because i want the chapters to go up together, but i didn't think they belonged in one single chap. so look out for that. no telling *when* that will go up, cuz i want to finish at least one of my problem chaps before thr next update, but we know my track record. but that's the plan right now, at least
> 
> the songs playing are 'old, old fashion' by frightened rabbit, and 'i'll be waiting' by nathaniel rateliff & the night sweats
> 
> <3

Billy had a habit of getting in well over his head, despite all his best efforts. 

It had started because Steve got away from the office earlier than usual. In the week and a half that they'd been some kind of _something_ , they'd fallen into a routine. Billy would wait to start prepping dinner until Steve texted that he was on his way, would greet him at the door with a long hug and a kiss or ten, and then they would spend the rest of the night cooking together.

He'd taken to throwing himself at Billy the moment he stepped over the threshold, all the stresses of the day melting off him the moment he closed his arms around Billy's shoulders. He would nuzzle down into the crook of Billy's neck and _sigh_ , would go lax and pliant against Billy's chest. 

The night didn't start any different.

Billy had held on tight, until pretty boy had wanted to move, and then held on a little longer. He'd led the way toward the kitchen with a hand tangled up in Steve's. Had boosted him up into the counter, and muffled those laughing protests with kisses--until hunger pulled them apart.

Billy had reluctantly arranged Steve in front of the stove to tend to the grits while Billy stood at his shoulder and peeled shrimp. His own task didn't take long, of course, and gave him ample time to cuddle up to Steve--just as he'd planned.

He had pressed up against his back, folded his hands across Steve's belly, hooked his chin over a shoulder to watch him work. He'd offered instruction when Steve needed it, not that he often did. Had _swayed_ with him, when a song came on that he liked.

How that led to dancing lessons, Billy didn't have the slightest goddamn idea.

Steve threw his head back and laughed, and Billy leaned forward just enough to press a kiss or two or five to the expanse of warm, bared skin. 

"Okay, c'mon, you have to loosen up," he chuckled, hands pushing and pulling and directing Billy every which way he wanted. "You're so _stiff_."

"I am _not_!"

"You're stiff as a board! C'mon, you're in Illinois, you gotta dance like it," Steve teased. "We don't dance with our hips in the Midwest, we dance with our feet!"

"Then that's not dancing!" Billy argued. "That's _shuffling_!"

"Shut your face and move your feet!"

"I'm moving!"

"You are rooted to the fucking _floor_ ," Steve laughed. He leaned in and nudged his nose against Billy's, "Come on, just follow me! You're making this so much more difficult than it needs to be."

Billy paused in his consternation long enough to give Steve a dry look, "Well now you know how it fucking feels then, huh?"

Steve sputtered out a laugh, one that turned into a breathless wheeze that had him leaning his dizzy weight into Billy's chest.

"Oh, yeah? You think that's funny, punk?" Billy grumbled and darted forward, to nuzzle at the spot just below Steve's ear, the spot that made him shiver and squirm. He dropped his hand from Steve's shoulder and tickled and pinched at his ribs, "Huh? Do ya?"

"St-stop, _stop_!" Steve laughed, voice breathless and pitched. He shoved Billy back and tried valiantly to give him a stern look. It didn't work, what with all the giggling. " _Dancing_. We're _dancing_. Stop trying to distract me."

Billy whined and pouted and tried to look cute, but it didn't matter one bit. Billy was going to do whatever Steve wanted him to, simply because Steve wanted it, and not even _Billy_ could convince himself otherwise. So he _sighed_ dramatically and complained the whole time, but when Steve told him to move, he moved.

It was a dangerous business, swing dancing in socked feet. Slip-sliding across cool kitchen tile, nothing but flailing limbs and stubbed toes. 

He let Steve lead, let himself be spun around and flung about. He twisted each time Steve told him to, their clasped hands held high above their heads. He spun out when those insistent hands pushed, flung himself back at Steve when those hands _pulled_ , pressed himself flush, from hips to chest, with a breathless laugh.

He clung tight to Steve's shoulders when he was suddenly dipped--the _first_ time, at least. The next time he threw a hand above his head and laughed. The next he lifted a leg and curled it around Steve's waist. 

Went on and on like that until he kicked out blindly and knocked something off the counter with a loud clatter. Until they both started laughing so hard they couldn't even straighten, until their feet slipped and their shoulders shook and they toppled right over into a heap on the floor.

It was dizzying and wild, spinning and shuffling across the cool tile while _we will waltz across the carpet, 1, 2, 3, 2, 2, 3_ crooned at them from the phone on the counter and Steve's hand was warm in his own. It left him breathless and panting, all the spinning, all the laughing. 

His hip throbbed, where he'd spun himself right into the kitchen island. And Steve limped, occasionally, after having Billy spend the first ten minutes stomping all over his toes. Their knees, their elbows, their shoulders would be bruised to hell and back, and Billy didn't care. He didn't give a good goddamn, as long as Steve never stopped looking at him like that.

It could have been days later, by the time they slowed, and Billy didn't much mind. Not right then, not when it was Steve. 

The music had settled itself into something a little more Billy's speed. Something closer to blues than country, something syrupy-sweet and slow. 

Steve slowed his step to match, and Billy followed, until they weren't dancing so much as _swaying_ in place. Until they were pressed close together, close enough he could swear he heard Steve's heartbeat over the low music.

 _If I go home, oh with a howlin' bend, If you ever get lonely, if you never dared, I count the hours till you come round again_.

It took him a moment, caught him off guard, set him tumbling again.

Steve was _singing_ , so softly that Billy almost wasn't sure for a long moment. And then he grew a little more confident, a little louder, maybe, though not by much. And _fuck_ , he was good at that, too.

He shuffled a little closer, until they were pressed so tight together that not a breath of space remained between them. He felt Steve's breath on his cheek, the steady beat of another heart against his chest, the warm brand of Steve's hand on the small of his back.

Steve was so, so warm against him, his forehead tacky with sweat where he pressed against Billy's temple. His grip on Billy's hand never once loosened, the smile in his voice never once wavered as he sang _to_ Billy.

Billy shifted his hold, and tucked their clasped hands between them, against his chest, over his heart. He slid his hand up Steve's shoulder, up the nape of his neck, gently threaded into his soft hair to cup the back of his head. He _swayed_ with Steve, followed his slow lead, let himself get lost in it.

" _I'm just saying,_ " Steve sang, whisper-soft and low against Billy's ear, " _aw baby,_ " he sang, as his lips brushed Billy's temple with each word, " _I'd be waiting, mmhm baby_ ," he sang, and held onto Billy like he'd never let go. 

Billy turned his head and stole the rest of the song from Steve's lips.

_I'd be waiting, oh baby, just to dance with you._


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another double chapter update to CELEBRATE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i am very tired and i have a stress hangover and i'm currently sick with the flu (yes, deffo the flu, i got tested just to be certain. bitch got me before i could get my flu shot--which _**get your mother fucking flu shots i swear to fucking god people**_ ) but THIS WEEK HAS BEEN A DECADE LONG BUT WE GOT THERE. so, to celebrate, have a couple chapters before i got back to sleep for another week. 
> 
> i tried to edit, but if i missed anything it is the flu's fault and definitely not mine.
> 
> good night, y'all. i love and appreciate you.
> 
> get your goddamn flu shots.

At some point, Billy handed over his spare spare key, the one he'd had made after Max had confiscated his _last_ spare. Steve had grown busy with work, often had to cancel plans in favor of getting home late in the night. It made Billy itch, made him antsy, going so long without seeing Steve.

 _Just come over whenever you're done_ , Billy had said, cheeks red and hot as he slid the key across the countertop. _Just come in, I don't mind_ , he'd said when Steve's smile was slow to show. _I like when you're here_ , he'd said, before he was tackled against the countertop, long arms locked around his neck.

It was _nice_.

It meant that, sometimes, Billy woke with Steve wrapped around him. It meant that he would sometimes wake at about one in the morning to watch Steve slowly undress in the bathroom doorway while he brushed his teeth and tried not to trip over his own feet. It meant that Steve would sometimes wake him with a kiss and a cup of coffee, and another kiss or twelve for the road, as he hurried out the door.

It meant hands tickling over his hips, as Steve would sneak up behind him at the stove. Meant a few extra pairs of shoes next to the door, an extra toothbrush, a second pillow--though Steve liked to sleep pressed up close enough to use Billy's, instead. 

There were rumpled ties left wherever they were tossed, an occasional dress sock left in Billy's laundry basket, a few hoodies and t-shirts missing from his closet. Meant mugs left out on the counter in the mornings, and a sink full of dishes dirtied too late in the night to even bother with washing.

Meant that everything always smelled like citrus and spice, like sandalwood and thyme, like hairspray and pen ink. Everything felt warm and soft, felt _good_.

It was nice. Weird, and new, and domestic as _shit_ , but it was nice.

*

"Hey, babe, did you remember to bring your knives?"

Steve paused, blinked a few times, then dropped his chin to his chest with a long groan. " _No_ , but I will next time."

"Sure."

" _Hey_ , I don't think I like that tone, mister!"

"Oh, yeah?" Billy waggled his eyebrows, just to get Steve to laugh. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Steve narrowed his eyes, his smile small and playful. He went tense, coiled and ready to pounce. "You really wanna know?" he asked.

There was a tub of strawberry ice cream melting on the counter, and roast leftovers cooling in the pan. There were dishes in the sink, waiting to be done, and a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies next to mugs of slowly cooling tea. The stove clock read 12:03, far too late to have dessert, let alone get up to any kind of shenanigans, but it hadn't stopped them yet.

Steve wanted to _play_.

And who was Billy to deny him anything?

Billy widened his stance a little, and anticipation prickled at his fingertips. "I really think I do."

Steve grinned at him, slow and _sly_. "Yeah? You really, _really_ wanna know?"

"Oh, _yeah_ , I really, _really_ do," he teased back, and braced himself as Steve lunged.

*

The first new hire Billy met was a woman named Carol. 

She had a sly smile and a tone that reminded him of the popular kids back in high school. She popped gum and twirled her hair and, within just five minutes of sharing space, started to tease and talk back at Billy with a bit less bite than Robin and a bit more fire than Nancy.

But her resume looked good, and he knew Robin had tested her to hell and back, so he saw nothing wrong with her being in his kitchen. She was quick enough to keep up with them both, and could easily switch between entrees and desserts. He liked her, she'd be a godsend when things got busy and hectic.

The problem lied solely with _Tommy_.

He was an asshole, and Billy had liked him almost immediately. He was brash and obnoxious, he pissed off Nancy at every turn, and he was damn good behind the bar. He could turn on the charm for a customer at the drop of a hat, then immediately turn right back around and be the smarmy little shit that drove Nancy and Heather up the wall.

Hours of endless entertainment. It was _great_.

What _wasn't_ great was that Tommy and Carol were married. To each other. And they were _in love_. And it was _disgusting_. 

At least Billy had the decency to keep his gross displays of affection to his own kitchen. He didn't bring Steve in just to suck face in the doorway, the front window, the walk-in, the back room, the back _office_ , and three of the booths--all within just their first three days of employment.

Billy'd had to start carrying around a spray bottle, not that it really did any good.

*

He was sat in bed, leaning over Steve's sprawled form, when he saw it.

The room was lit in low, warm light from the small bedside lamp Billy had invested in. Steve was laid out before him, rumpled and bare for him to see. 

Billy'd been _looking_ for about twenty minutes when he saw it. He'd started low, tracing and studying the mark he'd mouthed into Steve's hip. And then he'd started tracing freckles and moles and any little spots he could find until he was tickling his fingertips over Steve's cheeks.

"What's this from?" he asked as he traced the tiny scar on Steve's bottom lip. He must've missed it so many times, it was so small. Almost invisible and faded with age, just a tiny knick of silvered skin. But once he caught it in the dim light it was all he could think about. "This scar right here."

Steve immediately winced, face all scrunched up. "That's from way back in high school when I was a real piece of shit," he said, his cheeks red in the low light. "I was every bit the cocky rich kid you would imagine."

"I don't imagine that," Billy said, instantly. And he _didn't_. He'd entertained the idea only _once_ , for a few minutes at most, that first night he'd had Steve in his kitchen. But then the man opened his mouth and that thought disappeared in an instant. "I really don't."

"You _should_ , it's true."

"I don't _care_ if it's true. I don't think that about you, nothing you can say will make me," Billy said, firmly, but he softened it with a small smile. "Wanna tell me about it?"

Steve sighed, "I s'pose I should."

"You _shouldn't_ , not if you don't want to."

"I just don't want you to think less of me," Steve admitted, sheepishly. The smooth skin beneath Billy's fingertips when warm and pink again.

Billy scoffed, gently shook Steve's chin for a moment. "I already think the world of you, pretty boy. Nothing you say is gonna change that," Billy promised, then paused to frown. "Unless you were mean to a cat. I couldn't possibly date anyone who was ever mean to a cat."

It did the job, made Steve laugh a little and grin up at Billy. He tried to tamp down his smile, tried to look serious and sincere as he pressed a hand to his heart. "I swear that I have never been mean to a cat."

"See?"

Steve gave him a fond sort of look, smile small and sweet--but a little guarded and unsure. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

"Only if you want to tell me," Billy said with a nod. "A fight?"

"It was… a big misunderstanding, in the middle of an _actual_ crisis, and I just--acted without thinking," he muttered, eyes on Billy's chest. "I thought my girlfriend had cheated on me, very publicly called her a bunch of terrible things, talked all kinds of shit at the guy I thought she cheated with. Said terrible things about his-- _god_ , just said some real unforgivable shit and quite deservedly got my ass absolutely _handed_ to me."

And Billy certainly didn't like that, didn't like the certainty with which he'd said it. So he just smoothed his thumb over the tiny scar, as if he could soothe some long-healed hurt.

"It was _bad._ But, we're all okay now," he said, and gave a little shrug. He lifted a hand up to gently grasp at Billy's wrist. He didn't push or pull, just held on. "They're two of my best friends, actually. But high school Steve was a _prick_."

“Now, I don’t believe _that_ for a moment.”

“You _should_ , I was a total asshole back in school,” Steve said and rolled his eyes. 

“That doesn’t mean you _deserved_ it,” Billy argued and gently nudged Steve’s chin. 

Steve just sighed. "Me, this one here, the one that you know--sure. But I said some _terrible_ things. I was a bully, I was just… I was the stereotypical popular, rich kid, prom king, dick head jock. I'm a better person now. But I'm always gonna be glad you know _this_ me, and not that one," Steve said, quietly. 

Billy traced the little scar for a while longer, the gentle curve of his lip, and the line of his jaw.

He thought about himself at that age, neck deep in the hell of high school and running on nothing but cheap beer and rage. He imagined that him, the younger one, with all that anger and loneliness and _fear_. About knuckles, cracked and broken bloody--so no one would even think to question the black eyes and split lips.

He would be forever thankful that Steve never met _that_ Billy. He supposed he could understand.

He bent and placed a chaste kiss to the scar, and then another, and continued tracing his way across Steve's pretty face with his fingertips.

*

It took him awhile to get the kid to stop running each time Billy walked into the gym. When Billy arrived, nine times out of ten, he would physically jump, drop whatever he had been doing, and speedwalk his way to the locker room. 

And it _was_ funny, but it wasn't exactly Billy's intention.

So Billy decided to arrive a little earlier, catch the kid before he could flee in a panic. 

It had ended with the poor kid startling so bad he stumbled on the treadmill, ate shit, and ended up with blood pouring out of his nose. 

"You really gotta calm down," Billy muttered, and sat on the bench next to the kid. "I'm not gonna bite."

"I _know_ ," he grumbled back, voice muffled behind the bloody wad of paper towels. He flapped a hand at Billy, brow pulled low in an embarrassed glower, "But you're--you know, _you_. You got resting murder face."

"I do _not_."

"You _do_ , and it's scary and you know how to use _knives_ ," he whined. He looked pathetic and Billy had spent the last ten minutes holding back laughter with everything in him.

"I promise I'm not going to murder you with knives," Billy promised, as sincerely as he could, and got a petulant glare for his trouble. He raised his hands, "Hey, all I did was get on a treadmill."

"You _knew_ you would startle me, asshole."

"I couldn't know you'd trip over your own feet," Billy argued, though it was only a half truth. He didn't know the kid would get hurt, more like.

" _Asshole_."

"But you knew that."

The kid gave him another dark look. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to mourn my dignity in peace, please."

"C'mon, let me buy you a smoothie or something," Billy offered. "As an apology, or whatever."

"You see, when you add the _or whatever_ , I really start to wonder about your sincerity," he grumbled, but it wasn't exactly a _no_. 

He feigned a contrite, repentant look--as well as he could manage while trying to hold back a laugh, in any case. He pressed a hand to his heart and dipped his head, "I _sincerely_ apologize for startling you. And your face. And the blood. And your dignity."

" _Asshole_ ," he grumbled, again, but his shoulders relaxed a little as he chuckled. "Two smoothies."

Billy grinned and offered a hand out to the kid, "I can do that."

*

Despite a lifetime of fear and distrust of open flame, Steve _could_ actually feed himself. His scrambled eggs bordered on rubbery, and he tended to burn toast even on the lowest setting. He could microwave a passable potato, but had an uncanny ability to overcook Hot Pockets, no matter what he set the timer to. 

But he could assemble a damn good sandwich. 

And Billy had to hand it to him, he made a _mean_ chicken salad.

"I dunno _why_ you're surprised," Steve grumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. "I'm somehow _alive_ , so I am clearly able to feed myself."

"I _know_ , but Steve, _babe_ , this is a _very good_ chicken salad," Billy said. "Like, _really_ good."

Steve stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed and jaw tense. "Are you _deliberately_ being a dick right now?"

"A little," Billy admitted, with a grin. "But only because I just won."

"Yes, sure," Steve said, flatly, with a roll of his eyes. He dropped his sandwich to his plate and seemed to gear up for some kind of argument. "You _won_."

"Yup." He popped his p, and gave Steve the biggest, smarmiest grin he could manage. He pointed his sandwich at Steve's face and accused, "You've been holding out on me. This means you're not allowed to whine anymore."

Pretty boy gave him an offended look. "Ex _cuse you_?"

" _You_ know how to season things. _You_ know how to use spices. And _you_ know herbs and shit." He lifted his eyebrows in challenge, "You just showed your hand, babe. Now you're not allowed to whine anymore when I shove you toward the spice rack. You know what you're doing, and now _I know_ that you know that."

He opened his mouth to argue. He leveled a _look_ at Billy, a finger already waggling in his face, before he deflated a little. "Fuck."

Billy reached across the counter and gave Steve's hand a gentle, consoling pat.

*

He walked out to find Nancy and Tommy in the middle of a stare down, and immediately spun around and walked right the hell back into the kitchen. Robin didn't pay him any mind, apparently used to them, but Carol tilted her head in question.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, "What's with the Cold War?"

She rolled her eyes. "Are they _still_ at it?"

"Do I _want_ to know?"

"I swear, they weren't like this in high school," she muttered and went back to her work. "Like, yeah, we didn't like the ice princess, but we _got over it_."

"Sure, really seems like it."

"Oh, _hush_ , not like she was any better. I'm still a bit of a bitch and she's still a prude, we're all friends now. I dunno why she has to act like she's _surprised_ ," Carol snapped around her bubblegum. 

And there it was. The missing piece. He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Did she find you two fucking again?"

"We weren't _fucking_ , you don't have to be so _crass_." Carol had the audacity to actually look _offended_.

"Yes you were!" Robin yelled from the over side of the kitchen. "You were very much fucking."

And _there_ was another war he didn't want to get in the middle of. As Carol turned a dark glare on Robin, he ducked back into the dining room for the fight he figured he could actually handle. Luckily Tommy and Heather were already out the door to pick up another order, and Nancy’s seething had settled into something a little less frightening. 

“I’m gonna fire him,” she snapped, as soon as she caught sight of Billy. “I can only handle one of them, and I vote him out. He’s off the island, he’s off the Christmas card list, he better get acquainted with unemployment, because I’m not letting him back in here.”

“Harsh.”

“He’s an _asshole_ and I want him to stop defiling _everything_.”

"Why did you hire someone you knew you wouldn't get along with?"

"Because!" Nancy threw her hands up, dramatically, but somehow managed not to spill a drop of her coffee. "I mean, he _was_ an asshole in high school, but he reconnected with us a while back and he's grown up. I asked around and _everything_."

"Good references?" Billy guessed.

"Annoyingly good," she groused. " _But_ , I wouldn't have hired him if I knew _Robin_ was going to hire _Carol_. I can only handle one or the other without losing my mind."

He shrugged. They were insufferable together, and scheduling them was going to be a bitch and a half, but he didn't mind when they were both good at their jobs. He just looked at her, expectantly. "And…?"

" _And_ , they defiled the supply closet, Billy," she growled. " _That_ is my safe place. That is a _haven_ of cleanliness and organization that I spent _weeks_ perfecting. And they _ruined it_."

“How much skin was out?” he asked, already fearing the answer.

"Jeans weren't _off_ off, but they were damn close."

"Oh, well, that's fine, then."

She made an indignant noise and smacked his shoulder. "The health inspector would have a goddamn field day if they took a black light to this place."

"If you promise to clean up after yourselves, I guess you and Jon can christen one of the booths," he suggested, just to watch her sputter and spit her coffee. "Only fair."

She set her cup down and immediately began to swat at him, face bright red. "You're so _gross_ , oh my _god_."

"At this point, we might be the only people that _haven't_ gotten lucky in here," Billy laughed, and danced out of her reach. "I call dibs on the table up front."

She made another of those annoyed, pinched faced, before it fell down into something a little closer to a pout. "Aren't you single? Robin said you were single.”

He sighed, “It’s… new. And I’d kinda like to keep it to myself for awhile, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She pouted some more. It wasn't going to work, but she'd picked up a lot of tricks from Robin. The slumped shoulders, the wide, imploring eyes. "I was gonna set you up."

"This wouldn't be the same set up as Robin's, would it?" he asked with a roll of his eyes. "She has _the perfect guy_ on deck, too."

"Yeah, we have plans," she confirmed with a nod. And then she narrowed her eyes at him, " _Had_."

"Well, I'm sure the two of you can scrounge up some other eligible bachelor for your boy,” he laughed. “I’m taken and quite happy about it, thank you very much. Not my fault you all were just _slow_.”

She lightly smacked his shoulder again, "I'm just _saying_ , if it doesn't work out…" She waggled her eyebrows at him, gave him one of those small smiles. The ones he had begun to realize were _real_ and genuine. 

He lightly nudged her away and headed for the door, "Alright, nosy, back to work. The sooner you hire a waitstaff, the fewer places they can get away with getting off." There were still raised voices from the kitchen, but he supposed the least he could do was try to clean up any mess that might have been made of the supply closet. 

"Oh, and Billy?" 

As soon as he turned, he didn’t like the slightly devilish look on Nancy’s face. She was too nice to look like that, that smug. It didn’t sit right. 

"Dibs on booth number two," she said, and it was Billy’s turn to choke on an offended kind of laugh.

*

"What happened here?" Steve asked, tucked down against Billy's side. He'd traced over all the tiny marks and scars on Billy's left hand, asking for stories and memories for each, before moving on to his right. He held it close to his face and carefully traced the faded scar there, where it wrapped across the back of his hand and around to his palm. It was long, looked far more dangerous than it had ended up being, all things considered, but it didn't tell a nice tale. "You grab a knife?"

"Not exactly," he muttered, and winced a little at the memory. "One of my instructors was a real old fashioned type, didn't like me working left-handed. Gave me a whole lot of shit for it."

"And so he _cut you_?" Steve practically yelled, struggling to sit up like he was gonna fight the old bastard himself. Billy chuckled a little as he curled his arm around Steve's chest and held him down--though he kicked out a little wildly.

"Not-- _no_ , not exactly," he promised, and ran his palm soothingly across Steve's chest to calm him down. "He came up behind me while I was cutting something, smacked me over the back of the head," he said, and Steve immediately started squirming to get free again. "I flinched pretty bad, and the knife slipped straight into my hand."

" _Billy_ , jesus christ that's--"

"I know, I know. He got fired immediately," Billy assured him, gently--though the man in his grip didn't stop trying to wrestle free. "My friend made sure of it, went to the school and filed a complaint behind my back and everything."

Steve paused long enough to look up at Billy, those big, bambi eyes full of concern. "Was that when you left?"

"No, no, I stayed. Learned how to use my right hand," Billy said, and quelled Steve's outrage with a kiss to the top of his head. Billy got a grumble in response, but the man in his arms began to settle. "Took me a long while to learn that I _could_ fight back. That I didn't have to just... take it."

"Is that the guy you punched in the mouth?" Steve asked, and continued to trace the lines of Billy's palm. "When you walked out?"

"No. There were other shitty instructors." 

" _Jesus_ , where did you go to school?" Steve demanded, indignant and angry. He squirmed free of Billy's hold and rolled into his front so he could wrap Billy in a warm, protective hug. 

"They _did_ fire him," Billy assured him. "And, anyway, he's dead now. Probably. He was old."

" _Good_ ," Steve said again, a little more vehemently than before. He tugged Billy's hand close again and traced the scar with kisses.

*

It happened over breakfast. 

It was sudden and shocking enough to knock the wind out of him--though it probably shouldn't have been. He'd just begun the daunting task of sorting out and organizing his recipes into concrete chapters, sorting his notes and his stories into some kind of order and theme, when it finally struck him. Knocked him right across the face with how obvious it all was.

Steve had been gone nearly an hour, the coffee he'd made cool in the pot and his parting kiss still warm on the ball of Billy's cheek. But he was still _there_ in some measure, still wrapped around Billy's shoulders like the University of Chicago hoodie he'd left on the bedroom floor--and that Billy had promptly claimed for his own. The plates they'd used for a quick breakfast were still sat by Billy's elbow, the coffee mug he'd used sat stained and cool by Billy's own.

Everything smelled like citrus and cedar and spice.

He looked at the pile of notes in front of him, the page that had well and truly distracted him. A simple recipe, a soup he thought Steve might enjoy.

And that was it.

His theme was _Steve_. 

Every recipe he'd written down was something he wanted to make for Steve. Something he wanted to teach him. Something he thought Steve would like--or _hoped_ he would, anyway. And even if he thought he _wouldn't_ , the idea of watching Steve's face crumple and twist at something he didn't like made him chuckle. It wasn’t intentional, it just sort of _happened_. It all stumbled from his fingertips into some kind of miles long love letter.

Whether he’s planned it or not, every word he'd written was something he'd wanted to share, a story he wanted to tell. All of it, just for Steve.

*

"Knives?"

Steve looked up from his groceries, and blinked owlishly at him. "What?"

"Knives," Billy clarified with a chuckle. "Did you bring them?"

A moment of silence. And then, with feeling, " _Fuck_."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of introspection for update part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good night.
> 
> get. your. flu. shots. aunt daggs says so, so do it.

Billy at age eighteen, speeding down the interstate with the windows down, relishing in the first drops of freedom on his tongue, hadn't wanted a restaurant. Hadn't wanted any bigger adventure than simply _living_ , no hope beyond being out from beneath Neil’s thumb for _good_. 

He finally had the fears he should have had all along. Fears of failing a class or passing off a good enough fake ID or getting stood up by that blue-eyed brunette from ECON, the one with a girlfriend out of state and a private dorm room. He had the hope of _love_ , for the first time in a long time, and the _rush_ of no longer having to hide himself behind bravado and bloodied knuckles. His uncertainties laid years in the future, fears no longer measured in minutes and hours. 

It didn’t stop his nightmares, of course. Didn’t stop him from jumping at shadows and flinching at a raised voice or a sudden movement. Didn't stop the spirals of anxiety and rage and fear that sometimes hit, that bubbled up when he grew too tired to tamp it down any longer. But it wasn't a _constant_. It wasn't buried in his chest and in his gut and the very forefront of his mind for every waking moment of his life. 

Billy at eighteen was a mess. He didn't know what to do with the bounty of freedom set out in front of him, let alone know how to _want_ something from it. He'd been mercifully granted everything he'd _truly_ wanted, what else was there? Why should he waste time with _want_ when he could _have_?

Billy, at nineteen, started his sophomore year with a mild drug problem, a dipping GPA and a string of trysts longer than he was tall. Billy at nineteen was greedy and refused to feel ashamed about it. If he was owed anything from life, he reckoned it was _that_.

At twenty, Billy started his junior year by giving a shit about his classes again and catching feelings for his weed dealer. He ended it with a little sister taking up space on his couch, as she waited for her own classes to start that fall.

At twenty-one, Billy had three jobs, a shitty apartment, permanent bags beneath his eyes and the best goddamn roommate he could have ever asked for. He kept his grades up and _earned_ that scholarship, just so he didn't have to see Max look at him in disappointment--not that she ever _had_ , not since California. 

At twenty-one, he'd finally begun to start wanting again. 

He wanted a future, somewhere far away. Where bars had Happy Hours and streets that didn't stink of molasses and piss when the weather turned hot and humid. He wanted a job that didn't grind him down, a reason to use the bullshit degree he'd earned himself. He wanted a family, maybe--a _real_ one, full of easy smiles and soft touches, and people who didn't leave him behind or push him aside. 

Billy at twenty-one didn't have plans for a restaurant, either. Didn't have plans for a YouTube show or a book deal or a legacy. Billy at twenty-one just wanted a _purpose_. He wanted a reason for pushing on and for surviving.

At twenty-nine, just weeks off from the big three-oh, he didn't want to be the reason he failed. Just a few years on from the dumbass chasing half of a dream down the coast, too jittery and anxious to _want--_ and far too hopeful not to. Fewer, even, years off from relearning an anger he hadn't known since he was a kid. Relearning a familiar fear, then learning that he _could_ fight back against it.

He was a year and change off from his last public meltdown, his last fistfight next to a flattop. Almost a year, to the day, since the worst meltdown of his life--one behind closed doors and far away from prying eyes and gossip rags. Eleven months and twenty-eight days off of an intervention through a cellphone, speaker held a few inches away from his ear as Max screamed and cried and begged him to get his shit together.

Nine months off from the biggest decision he'd ever made, hip deep in packing boxes and bubblewrap. Eight months off of standing at Robin's shoulder at the door of a run-down fixer-upper, with tall ceilings and a big kitchen. He was seven-and-a-half months off of signing the last of the paperwork.

He was just four months off of finding an apartment, and finally moving out of the hotel he'd holed himself up in. Of making Chicago well and truly _permanent_.

He was a few weeks off from _Steve_ . From hope and _home_ and everything else he'd put on the back burner. 

Billy at twenty-nine wanted everything he wanted at twenty-one. 

He just wanted it _differently_.

He looked at the prettiest brown eyes he'd ever seen, and wanted _with_. 

Still wanted a purpose, wanted a _reason_ for being and for doing, and he wanted it _with_ Steve. He wanted a future, wanted laughter and soft touches, and he wanted it _with_ Steve. He wanted a family, someday, and he wanted that family _with Steve_. 

Billy at twenty-nine wanted nothing in the entire _world_ quite so much as he just wanted to be happy. 

And he was happy with Steve.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, y'all? i think i finished writing this fic?? i guess the flu is good for something. 
> 
> _**still get your flu shots** _
> 
> but, yeah. i mean a couple bits need a little polish and editing, but i have filled all the holes! so i think i'm gonna work on putting a chapter out every couple days? if we're all happy with that? and just get this bad boi finished. so i guess this really means we're in the home stretch, huh? next chapter will probably go up sunday or monday? depending on how i'm feeling?? we'll see.
> 
> also, i 1) do not know how to corporate lawyer, amd 2) did not pass a personal finance class, let alone any class that would give me knowledge of banking and automatic deposits. i am dumb.
> 
> warnings in this chapter: billy talking about neil being abusive. it's not graphic and it's real small, but it's bluntly stated and i just wanna make sure that doesn't come out of nowhere for anyone. a lot of talk about steve's parents and neglect without really saying it. everyone's shitty parents. just a lot of exposition about shitty parenting

Steve looked like hell.

Billy _didn't_ like it.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong, Pretty Boy?" he asked, and immediately dragged Steve against his chest. He sank a hand into Steve's usually fluffy, soft hair. It was limp beneath his fingers, like Steve had spent the afternoon worrying his own hands through it. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, m'fine," he murmured, and sagged into Billy. Steve almost seemed to shrink in his hold, made himself smaller and shorter. He pressed his face into Billy's clavicle with a sigh. "Disappointed, but fine."

"Wanna talk about it?" 

He paused, then shook his head. He pressed even closer, until his nose dug almost painfully against Billy's shoulder. "Not right now. Later."

Billy gently clasped a hand over the back of Steve's neck, felt him relax almost instantly. "What'll make you feel better?" 

He felt soft lips against his skin, just at the edge of his shirt collar. "I _already_ feel better."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna stop trying," Billy murmured and pressed a kiss against the side of Steve's head. "You hungry?"

A little hum, a short shrug. "Little. I could eat."

"Alright, princess, let's get you something good to eat."

A quiet hum, lips against his pulse. Then the hinge of his jaw. The ball of his cheek, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Each touch was gentle and sweet, and incredibly distracting.

"You keep that up, we're gonna have to skip dinner," he murmured, and chased Steve's lips for a moment.

A tiny laugh, a warm puff of breath against his mouth. "Would that really be so bad?"

He chuckled and tightened his arm around Steve's waist, "Cheeky. C'mon, there'll be time for that later, let's get some food in ya. You'll feel better."

"What are we having?"

Billy tilted his head, pretended to consider his options for a few moments, just until Steve chuckled and nudged at him, impatiently. "How does a turkey sandwich sound?"

Steve's smile softened into something a little surprised, something _pleased._ He ducked his head and nodded, "Yeah, okay."

  
  


"So what's up?" Billy asked, and laid himself out at Steve's side. It was early, still. Early for _them_ , anyway. But Steve only curled toward him, tucked down beneath the pile of Billy's blankets. He looked tired, defeated.

"It's nothing," Steve whispered, and shook his head. "I'm just… being dumb."

"Not possible."

He huffed a little bit of a laugh, but it was weak. "Okay, a _little_ dumb."

Billy leaned over the short distance and pressed a kiss to Steve's cheek, " _Not possible_."

"It's just… do you remember when I said I had quit working for my dad?" Steve asked, carefully, and stared at Billy's chest. "I did it all, like, as professionally as possible, you know? I put it all in writing, gave him a whole, like, resignation letter and everything. I hand delivered it to his office, said it all directly to his face. I organized everything for him, so the next firm wouldn't have to dig through all my notes."

Billy was already wincing. He smoothed a hand over Steve's hip, tried to offer some kind of comfort. Tried to ground him a little. It maybe wasn't enough, but he got a brief smile for his trouble.

"A couple weeks after that, he called me up, just _screaming_ ," Steve said, a small furrow between his brows. "It was a court date, and I wasn't there, and my dad lost his shit. Because even though I said it _directly to his_ _face_ , he couldn't even be fucked to remember that I had quit. He didn't--I gave him my resignation letter on paper and by email, and he didn't do a damn thing with it. The only people who knew I quit were me and HR."

Billy let out another long breath in a herculean effort to keep calm for Steve's benefit. He shuffled forward to wrap Steve up in his arms tight, nose pressed into his limp hair. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered.

"It's so dumb, I should have known he wasn't paying attention. He didn't say a thing that day in his office. He didn't yell, didn't call me a disappointment, like usual," he said and trailed off with a forlorn sort of sigh, and nuzzled back down into the crook of Billy’s neck. "Should've known."

"Baby, _no_ \--"

"I should have," he muttered again, tone dark and unhappy. "And anyway, that's over. It was almost a month ago, and it was _fine_. Like, he disowned me, my mom called and cried about how disappointed she was in me, how they were taking me out of their wills, all that dumb shit," he said, far too easily for Billy's comfort, and shuffled back out of the hold. He flapped a hand. "And it was _fine_ , you know? They were… it was fine. I expected it. I didn't make that decision lightly. I knew what I was doing when I quit, it just--took them a little while to catch up."

"But?"

"But they didn't cancel my monthly allowance," Steve said in a breath, already wincing.

Steve didn't like to talk about his family. Didn't like to talk about his past. He skirted around big memories the same way Robin did, like there were dark things he couldn't even bring himself to think about, let alone recount. 

He would talk about the kids he used to babysit, tell stories of arcades and game nights--but he wouldn't say why he was so protective of them. He would tell Billy about the trees back home, but never why he'd stopped going in them. He told tales of sleepovers and raging parties in the house he'd grown up in. Told stories of stolen scotch and broken vases, pool parties and movie nights. He told Billy about the times his house was full, but never the nights after they'd gone home.

He told stories about his friends, but never his parents.

Steve sighed, expression something closer to shame than anything else. "They've been giving me an allowance every month since I was, like, ten. Basically since I was old enough to be left alone without a babysitter. Mostly it was for food and shit, and I guess to kinda make up for how often they were gone." He shrugged again, "For awhile, in high school, I just used it to be a dipshit and throw parties. And when that got old, I put it in savings, because I really wasn't sure how long my parents would put up with my shit, you know?"

And Billy hated the phrasing more than he could put into words. He bit the inside of his cheek, to keep quiet, and gently squeezed Steve's hip. 

"And, once I made it out of law school, once I could actually _work_ , I just started, like, donating it each month," he continued, and shrugged again, like it was nothing. "It's not gonna do any good just sitting in a bank, right? And there's plenty of organizations in the city that need it more than I do, so it's not like… It didn't go to waste, I guess."

He kept quiet, just let Steve say what he needed to, no matter how much it infuriated Billy. 

"So I've been disowned, but they couldn't even remember to cancel those payments. Like, they just-- _forgot_ , I guess. And it's small, and pointless, but it just… sucks realizing how little I actually mattered to them. I called them to ask for it to stop, and dad's secretary wouldn't put me through and mom hung up on me, twice. So I just called their accountant and asked him to cancel the payments, or-or just send it out to one of the places I donate it to so _something_ good can be done with it.

"It's small and stupid and it's not like I didn't just give the money away _anyway_ , but…" he broke off with a sigh and then snuggled forward to tuck himself back into Billy's chest again. "I should be used to it, I guess. I bet they forgot about it the moment they set it up, when I was a kid."

Billy tucked Steve against his chest, nestled his nose down into the wild mess of chestnut hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Really, it is. I understood what I was doing when I quit. It just--it sucks to…"

"Sucks to realize what you mean to people. Especially the ones meant to take care of you," Billy finished, tightening his arms around Steve's shoulders. "I get that."

"It's dumb, I--"

"It's not _dumb,_ " Billy interrupted, pressing kisses across the top of his head. "It's not dumb to expect your parents to act like _parents_. And it's not _dumb_ to be disappointed when they don't."

"It _is_ dumb, though. I really thought--for an entire _hour_ this morning, I really thought that maybe it was their way of… of saying they didn't really hate me after all," he whispered, expression angry. 

"I spent a lot of time as a kid wishing my mom would come back for me," Billy whispered. "But she _left me_. And I know why she left, but she left me _there_. Even if… even if she couldn't have taken me with her, she still left me _with him._ I was a _child._ Who even _does that_?"

"That's _different_ ," Steve argued, weakly. "I'm just being a spoiled, ungrateful--"

"I bet they were okay, sometimes, too," Billy said as gently as he could as he cut Steve off. "Right? Just enough to remind you of what parents were supposed to be, just enough to think that they could change. Just enough to keep you in line."

He deflated a little with a mighty exhale, and went lax in Billy's hold. 

"My dad beat the ever-loving _hell_ out of me every chance he got, but--we would watch baseball together, sometimes. And it would be _nice_ . And it would feel a little like it was _supposed_ to feel," Billy whispered. "I get it, baby. I do."

"It's not the _same_ ," he argued again, but it was weak. 

"It isn't. But it's not exactly _different_ , either," Billy said, and soothed his hands over Steve's back.

Tucked against his chest, Steve deflated a little. "It just feels… _dumb_. This is a dumb thing to get broken up over. I was fine with _everything else_ , and it's _this_ that fucks me up," he scoffed. "They didn't--they never _hurt_ me," and Billy would argue himself breathless that _that_ wasn't true, "they just… Jesus, I'm getting broken up over _free money_."

"No, you're getting broken up about your shitty parents," Billy corrected, gently. "And they _are_ shitty. May not seem like it, 'cause they weren't around enough for you to _notice_ , but that's an entire brand of shit all on its own."

"I don't even care about the--the _will_ and shit," Steve muttered. "I _don't_. I-I don't want a trust fund or--I just wanted my parents to love me." There was a sniffle, and then Steve began to tremble a little in his hold. Not quite outright shaking, but the kind that came with effort. The kind that came with trying not to cry, not to fall apart. "What d-did I do? Why--"

"Hey, _hey_ ," Billy murmured, and pulled back a little, so that he could gently cup Steve's face in his hands. "There's no… it's not your fault. It's never gonna be your fault."

"Not _yours_ either," Steve muttered, cheeks wet with tears. 

"I know. And I'll be the first to admit that it took me a _lifetime_ to accept and understand that," he admitted, and offered Steve a little smile. "It took a whole lot of convincing, and even then it didn't take right away. Hell, some days I still need someone to remind me of that, you know? Someone to make me remember that."

"I-I'll remind you," Steve murmured, voice shaky and weak. He sniffled again, turned his face into Billy's palm. His chin was trembling. 

"I'm gonna be here to remind you of that, too," he promised and leaned in to pepper kisses across Steve's cheeks. "Every single day, I'll be right here."


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter this time! i'm not sure when the next chapter will go up, but it'll probably be wed-friday, depending on work. advertising. holiday season. deadlines. i did not plan this whole "post a chapter every few days" thing for the right time of year

Billy woke slowly with the sun, rather than being startled awake by the blaring siren that was Steve's usual morning alarm. He woke, warm and comfy, with the weight of Steve's head on his shoulder and the comforting warmth of him laid out against his ribcage. Everything was still and quiet, the city below a distant hum beneath the slow, steady puffs of breath against his chest. It was peaceful, the kind of thing he never thought he'd get. The kind of perfect he'd only ever dreamed of.

Carefully, he eased out from beneath Steve's weight, so his Pretty Boy’s head was pillowed on his arm, instead. So that he had a little movement, so that he could shift carefully onto his side, so he could watch Steve sleep. It was a rare sight, after all. If he ever woke first, it was tucked up tight beneath Steve's chin. He often burrowed when he slept, snuggled up close to the nearest bit of warmth. He usually twisted himself up and into and around Steve as tight as he could. If he ever woke first, it only ever lasted as long as it took to snuggle closer and drift back to sleep.

But Steve's steady weight against his chest had kept him pinned in place, and Billy would be forever grateful for that. For the chance to just-- _watch_.

He looked so soft as he slept. None of the tension in his brow that Billy'd grown so used to seeing, no tightness around his eyes. His lips were parted, just barely, and looked so _soft_. He looked boyish, almost. Looked so young without the weight of stress and work weighing him down.

Reluctantly, Billy stroked his knuckles across Steve's cheek. Little more than a gentle nudge, just enough to wake him. A tiny furrow formed between his brows, but it eased away just as quickly. He went tense, gave a big stretch and a wide yawn, before he relaxed again. When he slowly blinked his eyes open, they glittered honey gold in the morning light.

"G'morning, sweetheart," Billy murmured, and brushed a few strands of hair off of his forehead. "It's about seven. You gonna be late for work?"

Steve shook his head and gave Billy a sleepy sort of smile. His eyes were a little puffy, a little crusty with sleep and salt, but he looked better. Softer. He looked _good_ , all sleep-mussed and fuzzy. "No, decided to take the rest of the week off."

And _the rest of the week_ really only meant he was taking _Friday_ off, but Billy wouldn't let the effort go unnoticed. He grinned and leaned closer to press kisses across each and every inch of Steve's face and neck and chest he could reach, until the man laughed and batted at his face. 

"You're a _menace_."

Billy nodded, as serious as he could manage. "I really am."

"Incorrigible."

"An absolute scoundrel." He chuckled and sat up a little, leaned over Steve's sprawled form.

 _God_ , and he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. He was slow and sluggish, no urgency to him for once. No rush. He was just lazy and soft and warm, all laid out just for Billy. He gently tucked a few bits of wild hair behind Steve's ear, brushed his knuckles over a stubbled cheek. "How are you feelin' this morning?"

"Better.” He gave a little shrug, “It all just kinda--it all hit at once yesterday. Got a little… just a little _too much_ , you know?”

“Yeah, babe, I got you. Got kinda overwhelming, right?”

He nodded, gave Billy a pleased little smile. “Yeah, exactly. I know it wasn’t how you wanted to spend your evening, but thank you for, like, letting me talk it out and for taking care of me and all that. Really. You didn't have to.”

"But I wanted to," Billy argued, gently.

"But I ruined our plans. You didn't--"

“Don’t say it like that, don’t say it like you’re a burden. Like you're work. You’re not. You didn't ruin anything,” Billy whispered, cutting Steve off. “You’re never any trouble, not to me.” And it wasn’t the declaration that wanted to bubble out of him, it wasn’t the _I love you_ that seemed to perpetually rest on the tip of his tongue, but he hoped Steve heard it anyway. “I was exactly where I wanted to be.”

He ducked his head a little, his smile small and sweet. "Well, still. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm always here," he promised. He bent to press a kiss to the corner to the corner of Steve's mouth, nuzzled against his cheek for a moment. Thought about just cutting out of work altogether so he could just lay in Steve's presence, soak up all that warmth like a cat in a sunbeam. But, if Robin murdered him for being late, he wouldn't get _any_ time with his Pretty Boy ever again. 

He really hated compromise.

He sat back up with a heavy sigh. "Well, _I_ still have to go in to work a bit. Want a little breakfast before I head off?"

"No, I'm okay. I'll head home and make something a little later," Steve murmured around yawn and began to sit up.

Billy was having _none_ of that. "No, no, baby. It's your day off, just stay here," he said, and gently pushed Steve back down into bed. He brushed fingers through his soft hair, scratched gently at his scalp until Steve’s eyes fluttered and he let out a satisfied little noise. "Get some more sleep, relax, laze about. Fridge is stocked, whenever you get hungry. I'll take the afternoon off, be back about twelve-ish, okay?"

"Promise?" He looked hopeful and _sweet_ and happy, even as his eyes began to droop.

"Yeah, promise," he murmured, and thought of the stuffed-full boxes in his spare rooms and the empty shelves and walls and lifeless spaces of his apartment. If anyone could breathe a little warmth into the place, make it a _home_ , it would be Steve. "Got some stuff I could use your help with, later."

"Yeah?"

He smiled, and dipped down to press another kiss to the corner of his smiling mouth. "Yeah. Get some sleep, babe. I'll be back before you know it."

  
  
  


In a first, nothing caught fire.

No one got hurt, nothing got ruined, no fights broke out by the walk-in. No glasses broke and nothing spilled. There were no disasters for Billy to clean up, nothing at all to fix. He didn't even make himself a problem to fuss over.

Nancy and Tommy worked in tandem, scouring the stack of resumes in front of them without snipping or teasing. Tish had brought her calm sort of competence to Heather's domain, already well-versed in their drink menu after just a few days.

Hell, not even Carol had decided to pick a fight with any of them. The three of them moved around each other like a well-oiled machine, like they'd been doing it for years already. 

They were just weeks off from opening, hip deep in the final stages of prep. Billy had expected to be pulling his hair out by the handful. He'd expected to be panicking and too stressed to think straight. He'd expected to want to _run_ , to break and burn it all to the ground on his way out the door.

But he _didn't_ , was the thing. He was afraid, but there was no danger pickling at his fingertips. There was no urge to _run_. He was anxious, sick to his stomach with it, but it was overshadowed by his excitement. The knot of nerves in his gut had yet to let up, but it felt different. He was _ready_.

When he looked out over the dining room, watched the light catch off the delicate lightbulbs in the window, he was calm. He felt _right_ , for once. Felt good. For the first time that he could remember, he was well and truly settled.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i was right, work is choosing to suck right now, so it'll be a bit before the next chapter goes up. I WILL be making beaucoup overtime tho, so i guess there is that. fuck capitalism. next update maaaaayyybe next tuesday/wednesday? might just pass out and sleep for a week, we'll see. 
> 
> here's a lil short buddy to tide everyone over. i promise the next chapter will be longer, but this one just gonna simmer a lil bit

He kept his phone close, just in case, but it didn’t help. It hadn’t lit up with Steve’s name in days, and it hadn’t taken Billy all that long to realize that it wouldn’t. Everything was suddenly so _quiet_ , so empty without him there.

He managed to make it an entire week before he let anything show. Before anyone saw something slip out from beneath the mask he tried, with all his might, to hold in place. 

He’d kept himself busy, worked himself to exhaustion, did everything he could to avoid going home alone. He'd tried to sequester himself away, tried to hole up in his own, quiet corner of the kitchen every chance he got.

And when he couldn't be alone, he tried to at least be professional. He tried to be polite. Tried to lock it down and push it away, so all that was left was the job. It didn't seem to be working all that well, if he was honest. His short temper started to make appearances, though he could usually tamp it down before anyone got well and truly offended. But he knew he came off as a dick, if Carol's raised eyebrows were anything to go by, but he hoped everyone had just chalked it up to nerves. 

He'd begun to snap more, begun to pick stupid little fights for no other reason than to let off steam. He would slip every now and again, get mean and petty. Hell, he managed to get vicious enough to startle even Tommy. 

And _that_ was a weird sight. He hadn't known the man more than a few weeks, and he didn't think he'd ever seen Tommy quiet. Didn't think he could pick out a moment of seeing the startled expression, or wide eyes. He didn't return fire, though, the way Billy expected, the way he usually would. He didn't bite back, he pursed his lips tight and gave Billy a short nod as he turned away.

He really only had a few moments to regret the slump of Tommy's shoulders as he fled into the dining room. And then there were hands on his back, and he just sighed and let himself be shoved out of the kitchen. He didn't even try to fight, just let Robin herd him into the supply closet.

He found a shelf to lean against and braced himself for whatever she had to throw at him. He was long overdue for a verbal ass kicking, and she sure liked to dish them out.

As soon as the lights went up, Robin spun on him. "What's wrong?"

“Nothing, I’m fine, I just--”

“No, you’re lying to me,” Robin said, hands on her hips. “You made Tommy _sad_. You, _somehow_ , made that little shit _sad_. That’s how snippy you’re being today.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“He will, but that’s not the goddamn _point_ ,” she snapped. She looked angry, and he bit his tongue against any other comments. "Even if he wasn't your friend, he's your employee. You can't just--just take your shit out on him because you don't know what else to do."

He sighed, slumped a little. "Yeah, I know."

"Then _why_ are you being such a dick?"

"I was seeing someone," he said, quietly. "And--"

She smacked his shoulder immediately, almost more on reflex. “And I had to hear it from _Nancy_ , of all people. You've been--been _gooey_ and happy lately, and I have been _waiting_ and you haven’t said shit. But you told _Nancy_.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even _mean_ to. Just sorta spilled out,” he groused and rubbed at his shoulder. “And anyway, he left me, so I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

She blinked at him, deflated a little. "Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, a little helplessly. "Usually, you never shut up about whoever you're seeing. If _anything_ , you usually overshare."

"Because I don't usually expect them to last all that long." He shrugged, "I just wanted to--I dunno. I wasn't sure what I'd do if you didn't like him, you know? I barely said anything to Max, even." He huffed a little laugh, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. "Finally found someone I wanted to keep, and I guess I just didn't know how."

She sighed and shifted a little closer, so she could lean against the shelves at his side. "What happened?"

"We had a good--well, we had a good _talk_ the night before. We had a good morning, made plans, and…" He trailed off with a sigh, scrubbed a hand over his face, "He was gone when I got home. He answered one of my texts, said it was family stuff, and I just went with it because of-- _because_ . But now it’s been _days_ and he didn't answer my calls, didn't…"

“He really didn’t say _anything_?” she asked, frown dark. 

“He put the key in my mailbox a couple days ago, and that was it.” The moment was seared into Billy’s mind, too. The moment he stopped hoping, stopped calling. The moment he gave up waiting. “So, really, it doesn’t even matter anymore.”

Robin sighed, expression sad and a little heartbroken. “It _matters_ , Billy. You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.”

He scoffed, “What? Fucking up every good thing I’ve ever gotten my hands on?”

“No, dumbass, acting like you always have to deal with everything alone,” Robin snapped, angrily, but her expression softened back into something closer to sadness, almost instantly. “You’re allowed to keep shit to yourself, but that doesn’t mean you have to _hurt_ by yourself.”

He just shrugged. "I'm used to it."

"You sure as shit shouldn't be," Robin said. Her expression was dark, fierce. "Not now. Not _anymore_."

He shrugged again, because he didn't know what else to do. "It's one of the harder bad habits to break."

"I get that. Doesn't mean I like it, but I get it." Robin sighed out a long breath, deflated a little. "Billy, you know you can take a few days off," she said, quietly. "We'll survive."

"I think, right now, a break would be bad," he said, carefully. Because if he thought about everything, if he looked out his window one more time, he was going to lose his goddamned mind. "I think I need to keep busy. Just until everything is done and we've got a month or two under our belts. I'll start… _thinking_ about shit again then, when we’ve got room to breathe."

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure. Thank you, Buckles."

She gave him a sad sort of look, studied him a few seconds longer. "You're not allowed to take your anger out on Tommy anymore. Not unless he actually deserves it."

He huffed a little bit of a laugh. "Yeah, I know. Thought I had it under control."

"Yeah, well, you really goddamn didn't."

"I'll work on it." He offered a little bit of a smile, as much of one as he could manage. "I'll be okay."

“I’m not gonna stop worrying, and I’m not gonna stop being insufferable,” she said, and snuck beneath one of his arms to wrap him in a tight hug. “Do you want me to be insufferably supportive and shit, or just do my best Tommy impression and try to distract you all the time?”

He snorted and bent to press a kiss to the top of her head, “Use your discretion.”

“You might regret that, Sunshine,” she chuckled, and delivered a sharp pinch to his hip, but she didn't release him. If anything, she just held on tighter.

"Yeah, probably." He squeezed her close for a long moment, forever grateful for her. “But, what else is new?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333 i'm so sorry don't hate me we all knew something was coming


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello please don't hate me for saving all the conflict for the last ten like this is a hallmark movie i'm so sorry. there's still a little more pain and sadness before we get to the end
> 
> dunno when the next chapter will go up yet, this is a bad time of year to plan ahead. hopefully over the weekend? we'll see.
> 
> song playing in this chapter is _cooking wine_ by alkaline trio
> 
> big chicks is (was? i hope they survived 2020) a gay bar in chicago that i spent a night in while Spectacularly Shitfaced for a trivia night, apparently. i remember absolutely nothing about the trip, but the place looks cute as hell in the photos my brother took. apparently we got brunch at their sister sport, but i reached blackout hungover levels of drunk. i remember nothing until well after we hit missouri on the drive home
> 
> also, like literally everyone in this fic, barb also has a job i know nothing about. now all that's missing is mike and i gave him a band that is on tour i can only take learning how to write so many new characters at a time
> 
> also there's nothing inherently wrong about culinary school, i just got all my information from biased sources. it's fine, probably
> 
> and before i forget AGAIN because i forgot the first time around like an asshole, i made a soundtrack for this fic forever ago and [FlashMountian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain) / [awickedplacethisis](https://awickedplacethisis.tumblr.com/) was a goddamn treasure and nice enough to put it [on spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1wXUETnsglWzbpcGY1I0KO) because i didn't have one so you can listen to that <3

He started to wake up much earlier in the mornings, before even Steve woke on those nights he stayed over. He made his coffee at the restaurant, made his breakfast there, too. Made his dinner there, if he could get away with it. Did everything in his power to avoid standing in his own kitchen, to avoid looking back out his window again, to avoid being stuck in that quiet, lifeless apartment all alone.

He started to stay later, until long after everyone had left. Sometimes stayed the night on the lumpy office couch, just to avoid the empty apartment waiting for him. Stayed until he figured Steve would long be in bed, and was grateful that each accidental glance out the window showed him an equally dark kitchen across the way.

He tended to keep the lights off anyway, for good measure.

*

Billy hadn't really made it out and about in Chicago, not since his plane had finally touched down. It had been work and Max and the gym and silence. He'd explored the markets, visited every deli in walking distance. He'd gone to the used book store close by, but all he'd done is pet the fat cat that often slept in the window.

He hadn’t gone out and looked around. Hadn’t taken a tour of the nightlife. Hadn't wanted to screw up his fresh start by making any kind of a mess.

The first club he wandered into was loud and dark. Nothing but bass, low lights, and pulsing bodies. Something he might’ve been into ten years ago, but he’d long grown out of. 

But there was a man at the bar who looked like someone Billy might’ve once wanted to get to know. A devilish smile and an intense gaze, the kind Billy gravitated toward when he was looking to make trouble.

He _wasn't_ looking, not really. But trouble was always a good distraction.

*

"I'm telling you, I need more time," Billy groaned. 

" _And just last week, you said you'd start having pages for me within the month_ ," she argued, calm and matter-of-fact. " _What's changed?_ "

"I got dumped."

She was silent for a long moment, and then she just sighed. He could picture her, glasses pushed up her forehead as she pinched the bridge of her nose. " _You wrote it for him, didn't you._ "

"Yeah, pretty much."

" _When you fall in love, you sure do fall hard._ "

"I didn't _mean to_ ," he grumbled, and slumped against the island. Morning light warmed the kitchen around him, dust particles floated lazily and everything smelled like coffee. It was calm and quiet, the city noises below were nearly silent. It might've been nice, if it weren't so empty. "Just kind of happened."

There was another sigh. " _Can you at least give me a fake deadline to work with while I deal with the publisher?_ "

"Let me get through the opening, and I'll start reorganizing. I've got--all the actual recipes are finished and tested, so it's just everything else I have to write. Maybe I'll cull it down a little, too. It got big." He folded his free arm on the cool counter, slumped down to rest his cheek there. "Just need an extra month or so to, like, regroup. Figure out what I'm doing so I can just… you know, _do it_."

" _I'll get you your time, don't worry_ ," she promised, gently. " _But I expect a free lunch next time I'm in the city_."

"I'll make it two," he promised, relieved. "And a cocktail."

" _Keep buttering me up like that and I'll start getting ideas_ ," she joked, dryly. " _Just relax, Billy. I'll get everything set_."

"Thank you," he murmured. "I don't say it enough, but you're the best. Thank you for taking a chance on my dumb ass. Helping me through all this. I'd be lost as shit without you."

" _That's my job, right?_ "

"No, you're an agent, not a therapist."

" _Maybe I just double majored_ ," she said, loftily. 

"I'd believe that." And he _would_. Wouldn't surprise him in the slightest.

She just laughed, quietly. " _Take care of yourself, Billy. Check in again soon, okay? Let me know how you're doing_."

"I'll try. Thanks again, Barb."

*

His name was Garrett or Gavin, or something. It definitely started with a _G,_ whatever it was. He was taller than Billy, broader, tanner. Had a physique built to be looked at, admired, shown off. The kind of build that reminded Billy of baby oil and silly poses. He didn't have a fighter's body, or a runners. Had the strength to pick Billy up, but didn't look the type to throw him around. Not the kind of thing that Billy usually went for.

But he was kind of nice. He wasn't pushy, wasn't sleazy. Called Billy _Sweetheart_ when he sidled up at the bar, but didn't make it sound gross. He asked Billy questions like he was interested in the answers. Looked at Billy like he definitely knew who he was and still _wanted_ , even if just for a night.

And he wasn't Billy's type. Wasn't long limbs and soft hair and big, brown eyes. But he was handsome, he guessed, with his sharp cheekbones and dimpled chin. He was close by and he was a sure bet, if nothing else.

So Billy gave him a smirk, gave him a _look_ from beneath his lashes. Tried to want, even if just for an hour or two. Tried to forget.

*

Max made a face. Like she'd tasted something bad, or heard something stupid.

"What do you mean _single_?"

"I _mean_ , that I got dumped. Kinda. More like _ghosted_ , if you think about it," he said and shrugged. He drained the dregs of his bloody mary, winced at the burn. He was pleased that he'd managed to convince Tish to work for him, but it meant Sunday brunches no longer tasted as good. Too much pepper, not enough Worcestershire, too much Tabasco. "He left."

"What do you _mean_ by that?" Lucas asked, just as confused. 

"Exactly what I said. He said he was gonna stay until I got back from the restaurant, but he didn't," Billy snipped. "Simple."

"No, no, nothing is ever that simple with you," Max accused. "What happened?"

"Fuck if I know." The wings were overcooked, too. Had the bitter taste of old oil, not enough hot sauce. They were out of blue cheese dressing. It kind of felt like he deserved it, maybe. "We had a good night, we had a good morning, we made plans, he left. Even put my key back in my mailbox after a couple days." 

"Well, what did he say?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "What part of _fuck if I know_ makes you think he said anything at all?"

Max's frown was unhappy and angry, and he was pleased to know that it wasn't entirely directed at himself, for once. It was a little protective, like she'd beat Steve up herself if Billy'd just give her the chance.

It was kind of nice, actually.

"You're handling this all surprisingly well," Lucas said, studying Billy with narrowed eyes. 

"I'm really _not_." Billy chuckled to himself and signaled for another drink. He got the feeling he'd need at least one more. "I'm just handling it differently this time around."

"Definitely _better_ ," Lucas assured him with a gentle pat to the shoulder. "You're handling this much better than you used to."

"Still not _well_ ," Billy argued, just to be contrary. Because it felt like _praise_ , almost. Like he wasn't a complete fuck up, and it didn't sit right in his chest. 

Lucas gave him a dry look. "Fine. You're finally starting to act your age, just accept the compliment and move on. _Jesus_."

Billy blew a raspberry at him for good measure.

*

The kid's name was Jacob.

Billy discovered it the fourth time he got the kid to stay and work out with him. 

He preferred running and cardio to the weights that Billy usually worked out, so Billy ran with him on the rickety treadmills instead. Sometimes Billy posted him up in front of a bag when he could talk the kid into it. Sometimes got him a smoothie or something as he was leaving. Tried to make a friend _on purpose_ , for once in his goddamned life. 

Tried to make something good happen, instead of just falling into something he had no control over. 

*

He found he liked the pubs and bars better. Liked someplace loud with voices, instead of deafening music. Liked leaning up against a bar while he got chatted up, liked being able to hear whoever bought him a drink.

He liked _talking_ a whole lot more than he did when he was young. Liked to work to get to know whatever pretty face sat in front of him. 

It was a far cry from what he'd wanted when he'd landed in Chicago. He'd still been a brash little shit, then, even just months before. So used to heartbreak and disappointment that he'd stopped letting anything get that far. He'd been the kind to leave first, because he'd never known anyone to want to stay.

*

In a fit of _something_ he decided to cut his hair, then immediately regretted it when he walked into the kitchen the next morning. 

"Oh my _god_ , look at your ears!"

He groaned and dropped his chin to his chest, ears already ringing with the force of her scream. " _Please_ shut up."

Carol _didn't_ , and he shouldn't have been surprised. He was lucky she waited until he didn't have a knife in his hand each time she tugged on his earlobe, or pinched his cheek.

"I _cannot_ get over your _ears_ ," she cooed, as she still insisted on poking and prodding at him.

"If you don't stop, I'll make Tommy a widower," he threatened as he swatted at her.

"Oh, _please_ , like you'd go through the hiring process again." She rolled her eyes in dismissal, and gave his curls one last little tug. “You’re stuck with me _and_ you're stuck with those ears.”

“You don’t stop, you can organize the walk-in,” he threatened. 

She just narrowed her eyes and popped her gum. It really shouldn't have been as threatening as it was. “Try it.”

It was Robin who kept any blood from spilling, though. Like usual. 

She laughed and shoved Carol away, said something vague about Tommy looking for her just to get the other woman out of the room. Robin reached up and lightly tugged at one of the curls that hung over his forehead. "You _do_ look good, Billy goat."

"Now, see, when you say it like that, it sounds like you're making fun of me, too," he grumbled. 

"Only a little bit," she promised, with a sly smile. "This _is_ a good look, though. It suits you."

"Yeah?"

She narrowed her eyes, tilted her head a little, as she studied him with a careful consideration. "Yeah. Yeah, I really think it does. Time for a change, right?"

He nodded, rubbed a hand over the bare back of his neck. "Yeah, time for a change."

*

_Sorry I'm late, I was out spoiling my liver, I couldn't wait, the sun was up for far too long today._

His name was Brian, maybe. He didn’t give a shit who Billy, was or what he’d done, or what he was doing. He cared about how Billy looked in his tight t-shirt, how he’d look out of his jeans. He cared about right _then_ , and nothing else, and it was refreshing.

He’d followed Billy into a cab and up the elevator and into the kitchen like he thought his guise of sharing a coffee at 12:05 a.m. wasn’t a common come on in the nineties, let alone 2019. Like he was smooth or something, and not just pretty.

_And I can't see straight, but the two of you look awfully pretty. And I couldn't wait, you’re fucking beautiful._

And it was fucking _stupid_ , inviting a stranger into his apartment, but his belly was full of whiskey and his chest ached for a little company.

So he’d put on some music, something closer to punk than the country and blues he’d begun to grow used to. Something with thrashing guitars and rough voices, not the syrup-sweet crooning he tried so hard not to miss. Something to fill the silence.

He, Brad or Brandon or whatever, had pushed Billy up against the counter and tried his damnedest to distract him. Rucked up his shirt and pressed biting kisses against Billy's throat.

_And is it strong enough to burn away the cooking wine?_

And Billy hated himself just a little. As Brad mouthed his way lower, wide hands warm on Billy’s hips, all he could think about was the window at his back. He braced his hands on the sharp edge of the counter, threw his head back with a gasp, because he was _good_ , even if he wasn't what Billy wanted.

_And I'm just tired enough, if I close my eyes, I'll sleep for days._

If he got lost in it, maybe he could forget. If he stopped thinking about the darkened window across the way, at his back, maybe he would be able to forget it was even there.

_I'll sleep for days._

*

It was Tommy that ended up cornering him, though he knew Robin wanted to. She’d kept true to her word, though, and been supportive and kind. Distracted him when he started to look too sad or solemn, coddled him when she thought she could get away with it.

Tommy, though, didn’t seem to have a gentle bone in his body.

He unceremoniously shoved Billy into the pantry and posted up in front of the door like he really thought he could win if Billy _really_ wanted out. "What in the hell crawled up your ass, bossman?"

" _Nothing_ ," he grumbled and slouched back against the shelves.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week, you smell like a cigar that just walked out of a dive bar, and I’m getting sad just looking at you,” Tommy said and poked at Billy’s shoulder a few times. “Spill.”

“Nothing to _spill_ ,” Billy grumbled, and shrugged him off.

"I'm just _saying_ ," Tommy relented, hands up in surrender. "You look enough like shit that _I'm_ tired. I look at you and I feel _sad_. I don't do sad, Hargrove. I don't. So tell me what's up."

"Breakup," Billy said and shrugged. 

"Yeah, no shit." Tommy rolled his eyes.

" _Hey_ , you asked."

"Fair, but it's visibly noticeable at this point."

"It was a _bad_ breakup."

Tommy tilted his head in consideration, looked Billy up and down with a fair amount of judgment. "You wear it well."

And it would have been funnier if Billy hadn't been the one on the receiving end of it. "Hagen, I'm warning you, get--"

"Listen, I got this friend, right? Or, well, _we all do_ ," he said, and waved a hand around him. "I mean he was me an' Carol's best friend back in school, dated Nancy a long time ago, before-- _well_ , that's not my story." He frowned a little, “But I think I gotta tell part of it to make my point, so fuck it.”

"Hagen, please, I'm begging you--"

"So when we were in high school, right?" he continued, undeterred. "Like, I get that we were all assholes. But we're better now."

"Are you?" 

"Yes," Tommy said, and gave Billy a dismissive wave of his hand. "Like, even Nancy was still a bit of a dick at times, but she was a better person than any of us at the time."

"Still is," Billy muttered.

"Debatable."

Billy sighed. "Do you even _have_ a point?"

" _My point is_ ," Tommy interrupted, "is that… you can't just, like, shape your entire _life_ around someone. It's give a take, right? Not just _give_."

"Isn't that what a relationship is?" 

"Not a _good_ one." He made a face and poked Billy's shoulder. "He didn't just, like, _change_ for Nancy. He didn't _just_ become a better person. I mean, he _did_ become a better person, no matter how much I fought against it. He changed and it was all for the better, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t change because of her," Tommy said, slowly. "He, like, remade himself _around her_. And when she wasn't there anymore, he fell apart."

And it wasn't _exactly_ the same, but it kind of really _was._

Tommy gently, a little awkwardly, chucked his shoulder. "You're falling apart, bossman."

Billy sighed and sagged a little, “I feel like it wasn’t exactly the breakup that started all the falling apart shit.”

“Maybe not, but I’m just saying, you gotta... “ Tommy broke off with a sigh, “You changed, that much is obvious. But you gotta figure out what parts were changed for _good_. Right? You gotta figure out what was for you, and what was for someone who isn’t even here anymore.”

"What if none of it was?"

Tommy made a face. "We both know that's not true."

"You barely know me."

"One, _rude_. Two, I know _enough_ ," Tommy argued, and reached out to poke Billy's chest. "I'm just here to remind you that we all notice this shit. We're all thinking this."

"So why isn't anyone else saying it?"

"Because I have no tact and didn't feel like giving you space."

"Maybe they just know me better and know that I _need_ space. Ever think of that?"

"You haven't punched me, yet," Tommy reasoned, smugly, arms crossed over his chest. " _And_ you're still standing here."

And Billy didn't really have an argument there. He could easily get out whenever he wanted. Hell, he could bust out and lock Tommy inside without breaking a sweat. But he didn't, he stayed and let Tommy, of all people, stand there and giving him meaningful looks and a pep talk.

"Would you like a hug?"

He _did_ , was the problem.

Instead, Billy just rolled his eyes and shoved Tommy away with a palm to his face.

*

Billy hung a few photos, finally. Not _many_ , just the ones he'd taken off the bedside table. 

He'd gone out and bought himself a simple floating glass frame, and placed those three photos between the two panes of glass. He hung it just beside the pantry door, so that he would see it each day, see it the moment he got home and headed for the kitchen. So he could see it each morning as he left.

The next day he dug out a few boxes, unpacked a few more things, a few more photos, bought himself a few more frames. Lined the mantle with moments and trinkets and memories and things. Not--not _many_ , not all of them, but it was a start.

His dining room wasn't a storage room any longer, and his closet wasn't bare. His dishes were finally all stacked neatly in the cupboards, and he even sent a photo to Max to prove it. 

His walls weren't completely covered, but they were no longer empty. 

It wasn't what he'd envisioned, but it was his. It wasn’t alive yet, wasn’t quite warm and full and bright. It wasn't quite _home_ yet, but it was _his_.

*

"C'mon, let's get a coffee," he had said, after the fourth or so time he caught Jacob trying to ask him something. He hadn't even run a mile before he gave up and led the kid down the street.

Jacob sat across from him with a frown as he worried the chipped mug in his hands. He hadn't said much past his order.

"You got questions," Billy prompted, and shrugged. "And I'm in a mood to be nice. So, ask whatever you want."

"I don't--I don't _know_ what I'm supposed to ask!" he exclaimed, cheeks still red. "I mean, I always looked up to you, you know?"

The face Billy made was involuntary. "I dunno _why_."

"Uh, because you're really cool?" Jacob looked at him like he was an idiot. Maybe he was. Jury was still out on that one. "I always wanted to be a chef, like, for _real_ , and I just don't know where to start."

"Thinking of culinary school?"

He shrugged, a little helplessly. "Maybe? Is that _good_? Should I do that?"

"It really isn't for everyone," Billy began. "It was _not_ for me, or Buckley. We--"

"Wait, you're _really_ friends with Robin?" he asked, wide eyed and starstruck. Billy wasn’t a celebrity by any means, and Robin tried desperately to be even less known than him, but people liked her. People _knew_ her, and it was weird to think of her that way. Like some kind of celebrity.

He huffed a little laugh. "Yeah, I am. I've known her a long, long time."

It was strange, seeing someone so starstruck. And even stranger to see no _heat_ in his expression, no _want_ for anything other than information.

"You don't learn how to be a chef in culinary school, not the way you're thinking," Billy said. "You learn how to be a line cook, you learn all that front of house shit, you learn how to write menus--all that cool shit you think they're gonna teach you, you learn on your own time. Culinary school skips a couple steps, sure. But when you get out, degree and all, you're _still_ probably only going to get a dishwasher job.”

His shoulders sagged a little. "Oh."

"It's not _bad_ , obviously it isn't. It exists for a reason," Billy assured him. "You'll learn skills you probably don't have, get used to the stress, the long hours. It has its place, it just isn't for everyone."

"So what do you suggest?" he asked, quietly, brow furrowed.

"How much experience do you have?" Billy asked, instead. 

"I mean, I've been working in a kitchen pretty much my whole life?" he said with a shrug. "My family owns a restaurant back home. Not like--not like what _you do_ , just a little mom and pop kinda place. Just… all frozen food chicken strips and wilty lettuce. But, I basically grew up in kitchens, so I know about long hours and stress."

And that was good, that was a better start then a lot of people got. And the kid was keen. Knew what he wanted to do, wanted to do it enough that he knew people like Billy by name. 

Billy dropped his chin and sighed. They could use a few more hands, and Robin would be tickled fucking _pink_ that Billy had brought in a stray. "You want a job, kid?"

*

He found his way into some place in Uptown called _Big Chicks_. Some place warm. The walls were full of art, and the air was full of laughter.

Robin and Heather had pulled him along for trivia night, of all fucking things, and--it was _nice_. He didn't have to put anything on, for once. He could just _be_ for a little while. Make jokes and be a dumbass and forget for an hour or two while his friends refused to answer anything correctly. 

It was different. Real different, if he thought about it too hard. But it felt good. 

It was the atmosphere he'd always imagined the restaurant would be. Inviting and _warm_ , overflowing with laughter and people. Welcoming, the kind of thing he could get used to.

*

Robin had sent them all home with instructions to chill the fuck out. Sleep in, drink some tea, relax. Rest up for the big day.

She even bodily shoved Billy out the door again, but she had Tommy and Heather on her side for once. Together they'd practically _carried_ him out of the kitchen, just to unceremoniously dump him out onto the sidewalk. But, in a loving way.

He knew they were right, really. Knew he needed to calm the hell down before he lost his damn mind. If he'd had the choice, he'd have probably just stayed there and gone over inventory at least four more times before morning. He'd have slept on the couch, run home to change, and been back hours still before people would start arriving.

As it stood, he was pushed out of his own restaurant by his own partners and employees, and had nothing to do but flip them off and visit Gino. And fuck him, it was kind of nice. He'd hated his forced sabbatical, but he could handle a single night. 

So he bought a sandwich, something spicy and terrible for him. Bought an honest to god Coke, for the first time in years, just because. Invited Gino to the opening himself, because Billy found he wanted the old man there. 

He made mental plans to actually sit on his barely used couch and turn on the tv. Maybe even dig out some of the old DVDs he had stashed away in some half-unpacked box. Just relax, not run his head off trying to work. Just _be_ for a little while.

Everything he'd been working toward was _right there_ in front of him, just hours away. It wasn't months and weeks off any longer, it was within reach. 

When he stepped outside, ready to make the trek home--because that's what it was starting to feel like--he met the oppressive summer heat with a smile, something giddy and excited settled deep in his chest.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when i said this was finished? well i was editing the last part of this chaptera nd it didn't flow right with this one and i'm gonna rewrite it and flesh it out a little more, so i made it itsown chapter ahahahahaaaa yeah it's gonna get longer AGAIN. anyway, next chapter will probably be short one, so the next update is gonna be a double again. 
> 
> song playing in this chap _is i'm sorry i love you_ by the magnetic fields
> 
> also i'm p sure i got all the wried spaces but i am mad drunk amd workingo on some 1 am delivery ramen like the adutl i am, so if i misseda nything you can blame my brother and beer. couldi have waited until moring? probably. 
> 
> also im sorry lets experience some emotions shall we

"Thank you so much for having us!"

Joyce Byers hugged like she had all the strength in the world. She was tiny, only really came up to his shoulder or so, and slight. But she squeezed him so tight around his rib cage that it knocked the breath out of him. And it was definitely her strength, all that boundless warmth, and not the shock of being hugged.

She greeted him like she'd known him for years, not seconds. Caught Billy when Robin shoved him forward, and embraced him like a part of the family. 

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and hugged her back. Didn't startle at the weight of Hopper's hand on his shoulder. Just blinked away the slight sting at the corners of his eyes. "Yeah, thank you for coming. I'm glad you could both make it, I know it's quite a drive."

"Oh, we wouldn't have missed it!" She released him, but didn't let him go far. She gave him a grin, wide and warm, and hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the man standing at her back. "This one hasn't shut up all week."

"I have _not_ ," Hopper argued.

"S'all he could talk about," she assured Billy, her expression teasing. "Couldn't even recommend something to order, just kept telling me that _it's all good_." 

"I _didn't_ ," Hopper argued, but seemed to think better of picking and kind of fight, playful as it was. He conceded, "But that's true, everything's great."

"See? Useless," she teased. "Anyway, it's nice to meet you finally. The kids haven't shut up about you, and Hop's been showing me photos of your progress. I gotta say, it's so much better in person." She lightly elbowed Hopper in the ribs, "Grainy cellphone photos don't really do it justice."

And Hopper just rolled his eyes like it was an argument they'd had a million times before, and Billy was suddenly, profoundly jealous. Of Jon and Will and Jane, of missing out on parents like the two standing in front of him. But maybe they would stay.

Hopper muttered something, and Joyce scoffed and swatted at him, and Billy decided that she was his favorite. 

"Well, we'll let you get to work," she said, with a brilliant smile. "It's so nice meet you, finally."

"Yeah, you, too. It's kind of a busy night but you're both welcome any time you're in town," he said, and sort of relished in Hopper's hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for coming," he said again, and reluctantly let Robin pull him away. "I'll try and catch you again, before you head out."

He felt a little better than he had when Robin carted him over. He got the feeling he knew why she'd just shoved him to Joyce. "You saved them for last on purpose, didn't you?" he muttered.

"You were starting to get overwhelmed and antsy, and Joyce fixes everything," Robin said with a shrug. She was just as excited as he was, just wasn't panicking half as much. She didn't have the added flight reflex that Billy did. " _But_ , she's not the last person I want to introduce you to."

And that really should have been Billy's first clue that he was fucked.

He shouldn't have been, not really. It wasn't exactly the grand opening. There would be no public there, no real strangers, no one there to review the place and drag Billy's name through the mud just because they could. It was just friends, family. It was a trial run, a soft opening, so they could work out all the kinks. 

It was still _big_ , though.

It made his palms sweat, made him tremble a little with nerves. He'd cooked for Max a thousand times, but the thought of doing it _there_ , in his own fucking restaurant, made him shake. 

He thought he hid it well, though. He was charming and polite to everyone Robin tugged him along to meet, even as their faces and names began to blur together. He didn't put his foot in his mouth or pick a fight, just let himself be led around by a tight grip on his wrist, like she thought he might bolt if she didn't keep hold of him. He might've, too.

But, he was _hopeful_.

Occasionally, he would catch himself just--standing. Every now and again, when he had a moment or two to himself, he would catch himself just watching. Let himself take in the room. The twinkling lights above his head, the sound of voices and laughter echoing off the walls, the _people_. The whole place _full_. 

He could see Nancy and Tommy wandering around with notepads, taking orders just as often as they got caught bullshitting with old friends. Heather was never without a glass in hand, passing a drink off with one hand while she hugged someone with the other.

It was fucking _perfect_.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

Because it usually fucking was.

His first clue should have been her sly smile, the kind she wore when she had a surprise. When she knew more than she was letting on. The kind she wore when whatever she had up her sleeve was _supposed_ to be good. When she was doing something _for him_ , whether he wanted it or not.

And he really should have known, because it was _never_ that easy. Not for him.

It was Robin's excitement, as she dragged him through the throngs of people. It was the soft song playing over the soundsystem, singing _it is my love in your garden grows,_ just loud enough to be heard over the din _, but let's pretend it's just a rose_.

It was Max walking through the door with Will and Jane like they _knew each_ _other_ , hugging and laughing like old friends. Joyce greeting Lucas with the same familiar warmth she had Billy and Robin.

Because Billy's life was just a series of failures and mistakes and fuck ups and disaster after fucking _disaster_. 

Because it was _Steve_ that stared back at him, eyes wide as the smile froze across his face.

Because that was just how Billy's life was going to go.

And, fuck it all, he looked _good._ A little tired, maybe, suit a little rumpled from a day at the office or in court or whatever he had decided to do with his time. His tie was missing, the first couple buttons of his usually crisp shirt were undone, and Billy was struck with the vivid memory of the last time he got his mouth on the sharp dip of his clavicle.

Billy hadn't looked at him, hadn't glanced his way, hadn't let himself look longingly out the window the way he'd used to. He'd been _trying_ , so fucking hard, not to pine. Not to _wait._ Not to hold out hope for something he'd never get again. 

Steve had walked out of Billy's life. No word, no warning, no _nothing_. He didn't get to just walk right back in again.

Robin was still grinning, though, blissfully unaware as she practically bounced on the balls of her feet. "Billy, this is Steve Harrington! He's our--"

"We've met," he snapped and relished in Steve’s little wince. "How's the family?" Billy asked, and watched the color drain out of Steve's face. A lie, then. An excuse to avoid Billy and nothing more. "Get everything cleared up?"

Steve didn't say anything, just gaped at Billy.

He turned back toward a shocked Robin and gave her a tight smile, “I’m going for a smoke.” He didn’t wait for either of them to say anything, just spun and walked away. Whatever dark expression he wore must have been _something_ , because no one tried to stop him. The crowd practically parted in front of him as he pushed through.

He slammed into the alleyway with all the force he could muster, dissatisfied with just the loud crack of the door swinging wide enough to hit the wall. The voices faded behind him into a steady din, laughter and joking and everything he'd been working for, and it was drowned out by the footsteps that followed him out.

"Billy, wait, _please_ , I--” 

He spun, anger heavy and hot in his chest. "No, you don't get to do this. You came into my life and--and you _made a place_ there. And then you _left_. You don’t get to take _this_ , too."

"I know, _fuck_ , I know I did, and--"

" _Did_ you?" He waved a hand back at the restaurant, "About all _this_. Did you know?"

Steve flinched back at the sharp tone, but he shook his head. " _No_ , Billy, I promise. I _promise_. Robin never said who her partner was, and I just--I signed whatever she needed signed and wrote checks an-and that's it. I swear, I didn't know, okay? Somehow, against all fucking odds, none of us did."

And _fuck him_ , but Billy believed him. Steve wouldn't lie about that, Billy _knew_ he wouldn't. But it didn't stop the heavy weight of _betrayal_ from settling in his gut. Steve hadn't said anything about Robin, not by name, but she certainly never said anything about _him_ , either. She didn't often tell people Billy's name, not until she had to. Robin always wanted to protect him, in her own way, and it had come back to bite him in the ass.

"I should have, really," Steve continued, sounding defeated and it grated on Billy's nerves. "So many things you've said should've been a _clue_ , but I was too fucking dumb to notice. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, it's a little fucking late now."

"I've been trying to-to figure out what to say to explain myself and--"

"And you're not gonna do it _now_ ," Billy snapped. "Not _tonight_. Not when my entire fucking _life_ is on the line in there, you are not going to do this to me right now."

"I know--fuck, _I know_ , I'm sorry," Steve babbled, eyes wet and glassy in the fading light.

 _God_ , despite it all, despite the fire eating a hole in his chest, he wanted to tell him it was _okay_. Wanted to soothe the pain in Steve's voice, gather him close and hold him. Wanted to forget and forgive and start again. Wanted to apologize for whatever he'd done to make Steve leave.

He _wanted_. 

"Christ, I need to get out of here," he muttered and scrubbed his hands over his face. He took a deep breath, sucked in a lungful of exhaust and hot garbage in an effort to calm himself the fuck down. "Can't fuckin' be _here_."

"No, _no_ , Billy, this is _your night_ ," Steve said, hands raised like he wanted to reach and Billy _missed_ those hands almost as much as he hated them in that moment. But Steve didn't reach for him, didn't inch close enough to. " _Please_ , just--give me a couple minutes, and I'm gone. Okay? This is your night, you deserve to be in there with everyone. Just, two minutes-- _tops_ \--and I'm out of your hair."

He wanted to argue, wanted to yell and scream and fight. Wanted to say everything he'd been keeping locked up tight the past weeks. As much as he wanted to comfort Steve, to hold him again, he desperately wanted Steve to feel what Billy had been feeling.

But he was past causing hurt for the sake of it. Past picking fights, past causing scenes, past making everything worse because it was the one thing he ever had control over.

So he bit his tongue and gave a tight nod.

Steve offered a wobbly sort of smile. It was weak and sad, some attempt at reassurance that really failed pretty spectacularly. "Two minutes, okay? Less than that. I--"

"Clocks ticking," Billy snapped, and hated himself when Steve gave another flinch.

He let out a breath and nodded, eyes downcast. He didn't look at Billy again, just spun away and ducked back into the building. The door swung shut behind him with a loud clap that echoed down the alleyway, louder than the city noise around him. It made him flinch, made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. But he didn't run.

He dropped his head back and closed his eyes against the dying evening light. Took a few more deep breaths. Counted to ten, and then counted again.

He waited five minutes. Paced the alleyway until his breathing had evened and his hands unclenched. 

Robin was waiting for him when he finally stepped back inside. She gave him a long look. "It was Steve?"

He winced and nodded. "Yeah. He's our investor?"

"And then some," Robin admitted. "He's an old friend, has been since high school. I feel like I've probably talked about him before, but not specific enough I guess."

"Never introduced us," he pushed.

She just huffed a small laugh, shook her head a little. "You know how much he works. Hard to find the time."

Billy nodded, because wasn't _that_ the truth. Steve worked his ass off. It was a wonder he ever had the time for Billy, let alone the entire _life_ he led beyond the little oasis they had made.

It took him a long moment to realize the sound was laughter. His own, hysterically bubbling up and out of his chest. Because, _fuck_ , it was kind of really fucking funny, wasn't it? 

It just fucking served that the man shoveling money at them, funding their little dream, was the one he'd--fucking _Steve_. It was Steve. The man Tommy told stories about, that Robin and Nancy were probably gonna try to set him up with, that kept Billy from wasting all his own on a pipe dream. 

He laughed until he had to bend over, brace himself on his knees to catch his breath. Until his laughter turned sour, and his eyes stung. Laughed until he had to _stop_ , to bite it back down so it didn't turn into something closer to a sob.

He forced it back down until he could breathe again. Deep, wracking breaths, but it was better than nothing.

"You okay?" she asked, weakly, once he'd calmed down.

He wiped at his face, at the dampness on his cheeks. "Not really."

She nodded, and didn't argue with him. "I won't--I'm not gonna say anything, but just cut out when you need to," she said, voice just loud enough to be heard over the din. "Okay? If you--whenever you need to leave, we’ll be alright.”

He took a breath, took another, unclenched his jaw. He tried to relax his shoulders, tried not hold his spine so tense and rigid. Tried to catch his breath and clear his eyes.

He didn't startle much when Robin gently squeezed his shoulder. "Do you _want_ to stay?"

He took another long, slow breath, and straightened back up. "I'll be fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"It doesn't matter," he said with a shrug.

"It _does_ ," she snapped, but her expression was more imploring than it was angry. She squeezed his wrist tight. "You matter."

He let out a long sigh, some more of that angry fire cooling. He bent and pressed his forehead to hers. "I'll make it."

She just nodded, but didn't pull away.

Voices echoed down the little hallway, too many of them. There was laughter, loud and happy. There were people there, in the place that they had made. It was _real_ , finally tangible, right there laid out in front of them. The silly dream of his came true, and he wouldn't let it get taken from him. 

He took another deep breath, and held on. Grabbed that dream with both hands and let it ground him.

He knocked their foreheads together, just a little, and straightened back up. "Is there anyone else I _need_ to meet and play nice for?" he asked, carefully. He could manage, fake it for a few minutes before he needed to get a knife in his hand. Before he needed to get to _work_. 

"No, they can wait until after." She offered another sad smile. "Carol is already getting stuff prepped and Nance has started taking orders, so it's about that time anyway."

He tilted his head toward the kitchen, "I'll see you in there."

Her nose scrunched a little as her smile went wider, as her excitement overtook the sadness. She was giddy, too. Just as excited and nervous and ready to begin. "Almost showtime."

He took another deep breath. Tried to settle.

A fire still raged in his gut, big and angry, but he had a job to do. Steve had said it, it was _his night_. If anything was going to ruin it, he refused to let it be himself. He refused to let his anger get the better of him again, he refused to lose himself to. He fucking _refused_.

Footsteps at the mouth of the hallway pulled his attention. Nancy, tickets in hand and the same eager expression that the rest of them wore. 

He cast her a grin, as bright as he could manage. And it _was_ bright, big enough his face hurt with it. And it was _real_ , too. Wasn't a put on, wasn't anything let than genuine. Something in his chest--deep and hard to reach at the best of times--still hurt, still ached, but he was still warmed through and excited. He was ready. He slung an arm around Robin's shoulders and pulled her in tight against his side. "C'mon, Buckles. It's time to get to work."


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another double update!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are! the first of two chapters this update! i'm just at the "i'm finish posting this fic by this weekend so i don't add 5000 words and lose my mind" stage of fic writing so.... this SHOULD be all posted soon! i just want to get it all out! i'm excited!

Almost the moment the dining room was clear, once the stovetops were off and the ovens cooling, once he'd finished putting on a brave face and thanking everyone, Billy was out the door. No one got in his way, no one tried to stop him any longer than it took to slap him on the back or pull him into a hug. No one said a word that wasn't congratulatory, though he was certain that all wanted to. 

Heather arrived at his door not ten minutes after he did, arms already out and open the moment he opened the door to her.

He loved her.

He immediately dumped all his weight into her arms, and she just held on tight. 

"Robin?"

She hesitated a moment, and Billy knew her answer before she even said it. "She's over at Steve's place."

He winced a little and nodded. She _would_ be there for him, too, but he didn't--he had a history with her, but not one as long and winding as whatever she had with Steve, he guessed. Not as deep. She had unending pages of a history he hadn't been a part of--a history with Steve. It was stupid of him to expect her to put that aside just to come comfort Billy.

It still _hurt_ , of course. But he understood, and he wouldn’t hold it against her. Or, he'd _try_ not to, anyway. He'd never had a strong track record when sticking to his intentions.

"If it helps, I bet she's yelling at him," she offered, a ghost of humor in her voice.

"It really doesn't," he muttered into her shoulder. Because he was angry, but the thought of Steve hurting didn't sit well with him, either. 

Maybe he wasn't even _angry_ anymore, if he let himself think about it. He was _tired_. His feet ached, his back ached, his knees ached. He had a small burn of the back of his hand that had begun to sting, finally, hours later. His head ached and his eyes were grainy with dehydration.

He _hurt_ everywhere. 

But his chest felt cold, mostly. No more fire there, no more strength left even _to_ be angry. Just the cold, empty weight of disappoint.

Heather was silent for a long moment, just kept up the steady touches, fingers combing through his hair. "Wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head and pressed his face harder against her shoulder. "You promise you didn't know?"

"I promise," she said, quietly, and tightened her arms around him. "He never said--he mentioned that he was seeing someone, but he wanted to keep you to himself for awhile. Same as you, I bet."

"Was he ashamed of me?" he asked before he could stop himself. It had 

" _No_ , Billy, no. _God_ , we aren't as close as he and Rob, but even _I_ could see it," she said, fiercely.

"See what?"

"How much he loves you." She squeezed him tight, and then pushed him back a little so she could meet his eyes. She didn't go back and correct herself, and Billy wondered if it had been deliberate. "He wasn't _ashamed_ , he was being selfish. He just wasn't ready to _share_ you yet."

"But how do you _know_?" Billy asked, weakly.

“Because.” She floundered a moment as she tried to think of the right words. “Because that’s just _Steve_. He’s only ever ashamed of himself. Never the people that he cares about.”

And, on some level, Billy knew that, too. 

"C'mon, get off your feet." She nudged him back and herded him toward the couch, "Just relax, you've been going since this morning."

And it was true. He'd shown up well before Robin had said he'd be allowed in, but she hadn't even been there yet to stop him. 

He'd gone over everything, as many times as he could. Went over every checklist he could find, prepped everything he could get away with. Hell, he'd _cleaned_. Wiped every surface and mopped the goddamn floors. 

Because it had to be _perfect_. 

He let himself be pushed down into the soft cushions, didn't even try to fight her. Didn't really want to. Not when he was so bone tired and drained. 

"I'm making tea," Heather declared. "And then we'll--we'll talk, okay? About anything."

"I don't wanna talk about him anymore," he sighed out, all the fight and fire drained out of him. "Not tonight."

She just nodded. "Just relax, for once. We'll just--we'll talk. That's all. Doesn't have to be about _anything_ , okay?"

"Yeah, okay. I'll just," he hooked a thumb over his shoulder a little awkwardly. "I'll go change real quick. Meet you back here in five?"

She gave him a warm grin, ruffled his hair a little and danced her way off toward the kitchen. He listened a moment, as she rifled through drawers and cupboards for whatever she needed. The rush of running water, the _tick tick tick_ of the stove, the poppy little melody heather hummed as she worked. He liked the sound of someone else in his home.

He pushed himself back to his feet, the aches sharp. It had been so long since he'd been in a working kitchen, he wasn't as used to it anymore. But it felt _good_ , familiar. He shuffled off down the hall, the exhaustion finally starting to slow him down. 

He was glad he'd finally unpacked some things, finally had some clothes that didn't smell like citrus and spice to change into. An old university shirt, ripped to hell and back. It had traveled halfway across the world with him, almost an old friend. He pulled on a pair of mostly clean basketball shorts, a pair of fuzzy socks Max had given him once as a joke. They were pink. He kind of liked them. He didn't break them out often, just the truly miserable nights, when he was far from home and missed her. When he was heartbroken.

Back in the living room, Heather had steaming mugs of tea and she'd made a nest of throw pillows and blankets. She must have dug them out of one of the boxes tucked into the corner, because he certainly hadn't unpacked them. Or bought them. 

He wouldn't put her using the few minutes of tea steeping to run down and grab them out of her car. 

Her bright grin was answer enough.

"They're _greige_ , see?" she asked, innocently.

He rolled his eyes and flopped down into the pile, " _Thank you_. Gimme my tea."

"Not with _that_ tone," she teased, but handed it over and then threw herself down next to him.

The pillows were soft, and the blankets were fuzzy. Not too bad at all. He nestled down with a pleased sigh.

"Will everyone hate me if I just… cut out for a day or two?" he asked, and cradled the warm mug to his chest. It was a murky, milky color. Gold with turmeric and marigolds, maybe. A tinge of pink from beetroot or hibiscus. It smelled like almonds and apples and chamomile and cinnamon. 

"No one could _hate you_ ," Heather promised, and he could believe her when she said it like that. Quick and easy, like she knew she was right. "We'll all worry about you, but none of us could hate you. We've still got two weeks before the grand opening, right? So there's time to get your head right."

He nodded, tried to accept it. The tea tasted of sweet spice. Like ginger and apple pie. The warmth of it made him shiver a little.

"You did good tonight," she said, and bounced a little as she repositioned herself to face him. "Before you get all in your head, you have to know that you did good. Not just the--you know how to run a kitchen, we all know that. And you know how to cook. But talking with everyone, meeting people, all that other stuff. You did good."

He huffed a little laugh, " _Fuck_ , I felt like I was just, like, not even in my body. Just like I was watching all my stiff, automatic answers and shit."

"How many people do you remember?" 

"Joyce Byers and no one else," he answered, honestly, and relaxed at the sound of her laugh. "I know I met your parents. Couldn't pick 'em out of a lineup with a gun to my head, but I met them."

She laughed, bright and loud in the quiet space. "I kinda didn't expect us to manage to fill the place. I guess we all have more people than we thought."

" _You_ do. Everyone else does," Billy scoffed, but he managed a little smile. "I invited the guy I buy meat sweats from."

She gave another bright laugh. "But we all love Gino! He even started talking to Nancy about supplying us, so I think he likes us, too."

That was news to him, but he supposed he hadn't really let himself think about anything but orders for the last few hours. "That'd be pretty great, actually."

"I figured you might like that. Before he left, he said to tell you that everything was great." She gently nudged Billy's knee with a toe. "Max had a good time, too. Did you see her before she left?"

He winced at that. "Not that long. Just a quick goodbye. I ran out of steam by the time I made it to her." He gave a little huff of a laugh, "She's probably gonna let me hear about it next week."

He liked Heather's laugh. It was always sweet and melodic, comforting. He liked her voice, how she could just _talk_. How she always knew when and where to fill silences. 

He drifted a little, just let himself listen to her talk about all the people she had met, all the things they had said. And the _drinks_ , of course. What everyone ordered, what went over well. Things she would change, what she was most proud of. Like getting Hopper to drink a martini with only minimal, performative complaints. 

It was kinda nice, but it didn't dull his head entirely. Didn't quiet all the thoughts swirling around in his skull. All the _could haves_ and _should haves_ and all the things he could have done to keep Steve around. Keep him from leaving. 

"I was gonna invite him," he murmured.

Heather trailed off with a sad little sigh. She reached out and closed a hand around his wrist. "I know."

He sighed and curled toward her a little, so he could face her. "I'm glad it's over, and I can stop just _thinking_ about him every moment I'm awake. But it's just…" He trailed off, the words slow to.come to him. "I feel like I'm just gonna… deflate. Like there's nothing holding me upright anymore. Like he just took everything in me with him when he left."

"He _didn't_ ," Heather promised and squeezed his wrist. "I know it feels like it right now, but you're not alone and you're not _broken_. You're just hurting."

"M'tired of hurting," he murmured. "I got used to _not_ hurting, and now that it's back, I just--it's so loud."

"I know, but it'll end."

He didn't believe her, but he nodded anyway. Everything always felt bigger, felt like _more_ , when he was stuck in the middle of it. 

From the door across the room, they listened to a key in the lock, rattling loud in the still quiet. 

Which meant Robin had stolen Max's spare key. He didn't really mind, actually.

Robin had a look on her face, like she wanted to say something, like she wanted to push. In the end, she only pushed as much as it took to push into the space between them. She tucked herself down into the warm space against Heather's chest, her legs thrown over Billy's in a deliberately comfortable sprawl.

Billy appreciated the effort. 

"I have the note cards," she declared, and brandished a handful of paper scraps above her head. They-- _Nancy_ \--had handed out comment cards, because that was apparently a thing they needed to do. 

It made Billy's stomach roll. They could say _anything_. Could be _bad_ , and he _knew_ that they weren't, probably, but what if they _were_? What if each of those cards held nothing but insults? 

And he supposed he could deal with it. Couldn't possibly make him feel any worse than he already did. He could learn from it, he could grow. He didn't _want to_ , but he _could_.

So he gave her a little smile and a nod, and let himself sink back into the cushions. He waved her on and sipped his tea, "Go on, then."


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 of this update!
> 
> SO. plan. chapter 36 PROBABLY gonna go up on wednesday. chapter 37 PROBABLY gonna go up friday. FINAL TWO CHAPTERS (of the main story) GO UP SUNDAY (because i don't want them to be the same chapter, but i think they would work better posted at the same time)! i'm gonna let the fic settle as looooooong as i can stand before i put up the epilogue. might be two days, might be a week. we are at the whim of my self-control on that one. 
> 
> but, yeah. we are ALMOST THERE! i'm really happy with next chapter, so i'm VERY pumped to get that one up soon! honestly, getting all the loose threads tied up in these last couple chapters is real exciting

In the end, it was _Lucas_ who finally decided to search him out. Not that Billy had really been hiding, _exactly._ He’d just… stayed in bed. For five days. That was all. 

Robin hadn't wanted to leave in the morning, once they'd come awake with bad backs and cricked necks from sleeping on the couch, but she'd come back over that first evening. She'd been quiet, hadn't tried to steer his mind one way or the other, hadn't tried to make him make the trek downtown or next door. She didn't try to convince him of anything other than the fact that he wasn't alone. She'd tucked herself into bed with him, listened to him talk himself stupid, late into the night. 

She hadn't pushed, just tucked down against his shoulder like they used to. The way they would, tired and hungry and halfway around the world from home, when they would sit and talk long into the night.

Heather had come by that second morning. Mostly to pick up Robin, but she'd spared a few moments to make breakfast and start coffee. She'd hugged Billy tight, told him to take his time, but that they were all starting to miss him, even Carol.

Max had called that second night, tried to coax him out. And when that didn't work, she threatened to drag him out by his ears. And when _that_ didn't work, she told Billy that he was an idiot but she loved him--and that she would kick Steve's ass if he asked her to.

She also said she would kick _his_ ass if he didn't stop hiding soon. But she'd said it with love.

Lucas came in with a stolen key, on the afternoon of Billy's fifth day of feeling sorry for himself.

“You look like shit.”

He seemed mostly unimpressed with what he found.

Billy snorted and rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Sinclair. _Really_.”

“Just sayin’.”

"Yeah, well, _just say_ it somewhere else. I'm not in the mood for visitors."

The younger man flopped himself down on the bed at Billy's side, "Yeah? Well, tough shit."

"Is this an intervention?"

"No, not yet. I managed to negotiate Max down from that," Lucas said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You've got a week before she brings in the cavalry."

"Great."

"You're welcome," he said, primly. 

"So why _are_ you here?"

"I'm betting you don't actually _need_ an intervention this time," Lucas said. "You're heartbroken, not having an actual breakdown."

"I'm _not_ heartbroken," Billy grumbled. He sat up and shoved back up against the headboard so he could pout appropriately. "I'm just… _jilted_."

"Same thing."

"Is _not_."

“He hasn’t told us what happened, exactly. Just that he fucked up,” Lucas said, and pushed himself up as well. He settled himself at Billy’s side, easy and casual. Like they'd done it a million times before, like they were _friends_. “For the record.”

"I'm still confused about the fact that you all _know him already_ ," Billy grumbled, and glowered down at his hands where he fussed with a hole in his jeans. He'd planned to actually venture out into the daylight that day, but hadn't made it much further than getting half dressed before he crawled back into bed.

"He's from Hawkins, too," Lucas said, easily. "Used to babysit us all for a while. Me, Will, Mike--Wheeler, actually."

He knew the name, knew he'd heard it before, tried to remember just what it meant. "Nancy’s brother?"

"The one and only. You probably haven’t met him yet, he’s on tour right now.” Lucas shrugged a little, “El was there, too, sometimes. Or Jane, you know her as Jane. And _that_ is WAY too long and complicated to get into right now," he added when Billy opened his mouth to ask. "My sister, Erica, sometimes. Oh, and--"

"And Dustin, right?" Billy asked. "Steve--he said Dustin was like his little brother."

"And it's _true_. God, those two got up to some _shit_. They each have one, and _only_ one, brain cell dedicated to common sense between them, and I _swear_ they must have joint custody or _something_."

Billy huffed out a reluctant little laugh and nodded, and then groaned, "Jesus _christ_ , and you're interning with him, aren't you?"

"Yep."

"Just how fucking much am I wrapped up in Hawkins bullshit?" Billy asked, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "What's the venn diagram of our friends look like?"

"Your very small circle inside of Steve's much, _much_ larger one," Lucas answered, and gave his shoulder a consoling pat. 

He groaned and slumped over to bury his face back into his pillow. It was much quieter there, and the pillowcase didn't smell like spicy cologne anymore. And it didn't judge him.

"You didn't think it was weird that Max and Robin already knew each other?"

No, he didn't. Because they were both pushy, both assholes, and both absolutely disgusting and didn't know how to _not_ talk with their mouths full. Like attracted like and all that. He sighed and sat back up. "I just… Thought they just got along really well."

"And that they _do_ . Robin hung around with us all when she and Steve were home on holidays," Lucas said, easily. "Worst idea any of us ever had was introducing those two. Got along a little _too_ well."

"Like a cigarette and dry grass."

Lucas snorted, "Smokey warned us about forest fires and none of us listened."

Despite himself, Billy laughed. And then a few words niggled at him. He frowned at Lucas, "Wait, _home_? Why was Max there?"

"Did she ever tell you why she left?" Lucas asked, and leaned a little into Billy's shoulder. "I'm betting she didn't."

"Not a word. Just showed up on my doorstep, smelling like a Greyhound, and sporting a black eye," he grumbled. Because they didn’t _talk_ . Still didn’t. They’d managed to get _better_ at it over the last little while--having conversations over phone calls and video chats, having harder and harder conversations over larger and larger distances. They hadn’t yet dipped into the talks they needed to have, but they were closer to it. "I didn't need to know anything else."

"Your dad moved them to Hawkins," Lucas said. "Halfway through our freshman year."

" _That_ \--would _definitely_ explain it." He frowned. "You've been together since _high school_? Max didn't--she never said. At _all_. Neither of you ever said how you'd met."

"We got used to it, I guess. Keeping ourselves to ourselves. We were pretty careful, but we slipped up that summer after graduation. Your dad caught us together," Lucas said, and let it hang there for a long moment. Billy went cold with _dread_.

"Did he--"

"No."

Billy let out the breath he'd been holding and leaned into Lucas' shoulder. "Has he ever given your family trouble? You never said anything about them moving, so they must still live there. Has he--"

" _He_ isn't your responsibility, Billy," Lucas said, gently cutting him off. "But, no, he didn't do _shit_. For a while there, all eyes were on him. He couldn't have done a damn if he wanted to. And then when Susan finally left Hawkins, so did he."

"No trouble?"

"No trouble," Lucas said, then frowned. "A _little_ trouble. Had a bit of a drunk driving problem for a while there. Hop was still Police Chief then, so he made _sure_ it was a problem."

"Hurt anyone?"

"A few mailboxes, a few thousand dollars of landscaping, and one unlucky deer, but that's it." Lucas shrugged, " _Anyway_ , all this to say that Steve is Susan's attorney for the divorce."

And he remembered what Max had said, what Susan had been in the city for. He shot Lucas a look that he _hoped_ telegraphed just how very betrayed he felt. "Have you worked up the street from the restaurant the _whole fucking time_?"

Lucas chuckled and nodded. "We stopped by and got lunch from Robin while Will and El were there looking around. I guess that was when you were on vacation?"

"Jesus _christ_." Billy flopped back down, dramatically, and used Lucas' lap for a pillow.

"I can't believe none of us put anything together. I think Robin has just gotten used to not calling you by your name," Lucas said. "To protect you, I guess. And Max never mentioned Robin was working with her brother, and I never did. It just--it didn't come up."

"And he never--he didn't talk about me, did he?"

"A little bit, but nothing real concrete," Lucas promised. "Not much more than what you told Max and I. Just that he met someone, that he was a neighbor."

"That he wanted to keep me to himself," Billy finished, as he thought back to Heather's words--on his own words. And it sounded romantic, it really did. Sounded like it could have been, _should_ have been, sweet. It _was_ sweet. Because he knew Steve well enough to know it wasn't ever _shame_ that kept Steve from talking about him. 

"He said he wanted to be selfish, didn't want to share you just yet."

"And you really believe that?"

"Steve isn't a bad guy," Lucas said, and ruffled Billy's hair. "He isn't… _mean_. Not anymore, anyway. If he'd known, he would have said something. He wouldn't have kept this from you."

"He can be nice all you damn well want, but he still _left_ . Just--out of fucking _nowhere_ , he left. No word, no nothing. That's how he fucked up. He _left_ ," Billy growled, because he was allowed to be angry. "You don't have to sell me on how fucking _good_ he is, I saw that for myself. I fell in love with _that_ . None of it changes the fact that he just up and then fucking _left_."

Lucas was silent for a moment, as he mulled the words over in his head. Then he looked back down at Billy, a thought expression on his face, "Would you take him back, though?"

"After a _minimum_ of one hour spent yelling at his pretty fucking face. _Maybe_ ," Billy grumbled, before he could stop himself. He crossed his arms over his chest and, for lack of any better idea to get his displeasure across, _pouted_. "Hour and a half. Possibly two."

Lucas chuckled and gently tugged on one of Billy's curls, "Yeah, you two are pretty perfect for each other, alright."

Billy wanted to argue, but he couldn't really deny that he agreed. But he couldn't help but wonder what kind of heart-to-hearts Steve had been given. If he had someone in his ear telling him he'd made a mistake.

"Susan asked about you. She wanted to talk to you, if you're okay with that," Lucas said, after a few more minutes of Billy's quiet contemplation. "She's got some things of yours, apparently. She'd like to see you in person, if possible, or I can get it from her."

He frowned. "Why didn't Max say anything?"

"She's been putting it off. Didn't want to spook you."

"I am not a _horse_ , I don't get _spooked_."

"I'm not gonna humiliate you by offering evidence to the contrary," Lucas said, and gave Billy's head a condescending pat.

"Fuck you," Billy grumbled, but he did chuckle a little as he swatted at Lucas' hand. They'd grown closer in the weeks that Max had been gone, but he definitely hadn't expected anything close to what was being given to him so freely. 

"You wanna do it at our place?" Lucas asked, gently. "Neutral ground, or whatever?"

"No, it's okay. You can just give her my number," Billy said, before he could overthink and stop himself. "It's… fine. Needs to happen."

"Are you sure?"

Any other time, Billy would have bristled under the gentle scrutiny. Instead he just sighed and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure. If it's important enough that she's actually askin' to see me, then… yeah, I'll be fine."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want--"

" _No_. If it goes-pear shaped, I'd rather not say shit to her in front of Max," Billy said, firmly. "I'm… I'll try to be civil and do the whole _talking_ thing. But if it gets bad, I don't want Max to have to listen to that."

"Think it'll get bad?"

"No, probably not, but…" He sighed a scrubbed a hand over his face. "If it _does_ , Max doesn't need to hear the shit I've got to say."

"She's stronger than you think," Lucas said, and gave Billy's curls another pointed tug. "She can take it."

"She shouldn't have to, though," Billy grumbled and swatted at Lucas' hands. "That's her _mom_ , I'm not gonna put her in the middle of anything."

Billy didn't begrudge her that, having a relationship with her own mother. He _wanted_ to, it would be easier that way, but he didn't. Couldn't. It was entirely possible he'd do just about anything for Max, and that she _knew_ that, but he'd never say it to her out loud. She asked him to come to Chicago, and he did. She'd asked him to stay, and he would. And he was stuck facing the idea that she _wouldn't_. That, even if for just a short while, she'd be off on her own adventure and leave him behind.

And he couldn't begrudge her _that_ , either.

"You really gonna keep kicking around Chicago if Max leaves?" Billy asked, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Yeah. For awhile, at least." Lucas shrugged, easy as anything. "I mean, we did the whole long distance thing for a _long_ time, we can make it work again."

"And if she doesn't come back?"

"I'd follow that woman hell and back."

Billy nodded. He knew that for a fact, too.

"But I'm not going anywhere," Lucas said, and nudged his shoulder. "Even if we end up in a different _timezone_ , we aren't _going_ anywhere. You get me? So get that through that thick head of yours, alright? Distance doesn't mean _shit_."

He laughed, and his chest felt warm. "Yeah, I got it."

"And if you think, for even one _second_ that, until that happens, I'm not dragging you out of here every Sunday morning to get day drunk and commiserate with me, you're dead fucking wrong," Lucas finished, fiercely, and another laugh bubbled up out of Billy chest. 

Lucas was a damn good man, the kind Max deserved. She got the high school sweetheart he never expected Neil to let her have, got to know the long-distance heartache of college romance, got to have a devoted partner that would move heaven and earth if she ever needed--or _wanted_ \--him to. 

He studied the younger man a long moment, until Lucas started to get twitchy. "You're too good for her," he said.

Lucas rolled his eyes, "Alright, shove off, or Max'll kill you for making me late to dinner."

"Stay," Billy said, and reached for Lucas' hand. "Tell her you're working late."

" _Stop._ "

"Call your girlfriend," he said, face as serious as he could manage. "Tell her you just met someone new."

"She's right, you're a _menace_." He laughed and tried to get out of the bed, only to get caught in a tussle. 

Billy had always enjoyed a good fight.

"I'll be so good to you, baby," Billy simpered, and got his arms locked around one of Lucas' legs.

Lucas laughed as he tried to get free of Billy's hold, flailing just inches from giving Billy a kick to the face, " _No_ , no no no, lemme _go_!"

"No, listen, we can keep this between us," Billy pleaded, relishing in Lucas' raucous laughter as he tried to flee, hands scrambling to find a hold on the floor. "She doesn't even have to know!"


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know what i said, but FUCK IT. i'm kinda ready for everyone to finally read the whole entire fic. and honestly, i was just really pleased with this chapter and didn't wanna wait to post it. SO. chapter a day until thru friday because i want to. i'm gonna go camp this weekend before it like SNOW snows and i'm gonna fucking chill. and then epilogue sometime next week when i just can't stand waiting anymore. and this time I WILL stick to the plan.
> 
> <3

Susan looked the same as she had that day on the street. Smaller than he remembered from back in California, a little paler, hair a little more box-red than natural. She had that same tentative smile, same unsure expression she'd worn for years before. 

Her voice was soft and nervous as she greeted him, her step careful as she followed him into the living room. Her hands shook, a little, where she held the long, shallow box to her chest. 

When she sat on the couch, she did it slowly, and carefully, like she might break something. Like there was something to break.

"I couldn't save much," she said, softly, and placed the box on the table in front of them. "I got as much as I could, but… he broke a lot of things. Sold anything he could."

 _Not much_ was a box of trinkets. Trash, really. There was an old record or two that hadn't been snapped in half, an odd earring or ring here and there. A few Polaroids and photos of people he'd damn near forgotten, friends that had come and gone long before he ever set off for the East Coast. His freshman yearbook, signed by half the school, back before he'd ruined his reputation with his fury.

There was a mixtape that Joey Carson--the boy that had lived down the street all through middle school, with the blue eyes and freckles--had made for him, full of love songs. A mixtape he'd made for Joey in return, before he showed up from summer vacation with a few new inches on Billy and a sweet, bible camp girlfriend. 

A small, blue toy car--a Camaro, just like the one he used to have, the one he'd sold for two plane tickets to France. 

A Metallica t-shirt, worn-thin and vintage.

Nothing important, really.

"How'd you hide all this?" he asked, instead of the _why did you_ that tried to crawl up and out of his throat.

She gave a little laugh, self-deprecating and rueful. "I hid it in a box beneath my wedding dress. Didn't think he'd ever look there."

Billy huffed. "No, I don't think he would've." There was a library book he'd never returned, with a boy's number scrawled on the title page, tucked away beneath countless ticket stubs from shows he'd snuck out to. 

There was a small bracelet, colorful and cheap and far too small to ever fit his wrist, that little Max had given him the day they'd first met. From the very start, from when they were young and they both _tried_. Before they got to know each other. Before everything got worse. 

It was a strange little time capsule of a life he'd run from, tried to block out and forget and leave behind. In his memories, the bad always, _always_ outweighed the good. A big, dark cloud that blotted out any light he ever tried to find. 

But scattered through the box were reminders that it wasn't all darkness that had shaped him. 

"Oh! There's one more, I just--didn't want to accidentally lose it in the box," she said, and fiddled with one of the zippered pockets of her purse. "It's not the same chain," she said, something cradled carefully in her hands. She was shaking, just a little. Nervous. "It was broken, and I didn't think--I thought you might not want to keep it, like that, so I got another one."

Billy held out a hand to her, watched as the familiar weight of the pendant landed square in his palm. He hadn't seen it in a decade, had almost forgotten the weight of it resting against his chest in favor of the phantom pain of the scar he still carried. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, so soft he might've missed it.

"I know," Billy said, quietly, and studied the glittering pendant in the palm of his hand. He remembered it being a little more tarnished. It had been his mother's, left with him when she left _him_ , and left behind again when he ran. "I know you were doing your best to keep your own head above water. And I know that you had to be scared, too."

"I didn't, though," she muttered, and a shadow of anger crept into her voice. "Do my _best_ , I mean. I didn't do enough."

"I was… _angry_ at you, for a long time. But I didn't _blame_ you for any of that. Not really. You had to protect Max. _I_ had to protect Max," he muttered, gave a little shrug. "And I could take it."

"You should never have had to," Susan said, darkly. "You shouldn't have had to choose between Max's safety and your own. I _know_ I failed you, just like I failed Max, and I'm sorry."

He sighed and shook his head a little. "No, Susan, that's--"

"I was never a very good mother to you. I never even _tried_. And when I realized that you needed me, _how much_ you needed me, it was too late. And instead of fixing it, I just… let things go on like that. And then you were _gone_."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I'd've never let you fix anything, you know that."

"That should never have been your decision to make. You were just a _kid_ , Billy."

"A kid who'd been dealing with that _long_ before you got there." He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face and sat back against the couch. The necklace remained heavy in his palm. "It was easier to be angry and hate you than anything else. It was just about the only decision I ever had any control over. Being _angry_."

"And you were _very_ good at it," she said, seemingly before she could stop herself, if her surprised look was anything to go by. She brought a hand up to her mouth, eyes already wide with shock, but Billy had already failed to stop his own snort of laughter. "That wasn't what I meant to say."

"But you're _right_ ," he said, and chuckled a little. It eased a little of the anxiety in his chest.

"I just… I failed to give you a home. To make a place for you where you didn't _have to_ be angry," she said, softly. "And some of that was _willful_ , I'd be lying if I didn't admit that. The relief of marrying a man who treated us right, I didn't want to believe that you--that you didn't deserve it. It was… easier that way. And even when I knew it wasn't true, it was safer for Max if I just went along with it."

"I know, and I never _blamed_ you. Hate, sure, but never blame."

"But you _should have_. It was safe to just go along with him; it would have been _safer_ if I'd just taken you both and left." She said it fiercely. He could see a little of Max in her, a little bit of fire he hadn't ever looked for before. Max had to have got it from somewhere. "I've spent too much of my life being afraid. I should have--just packed up you and Max and _left_."

"It's alright, I--"

"It _isn't_ ," she insisted, her hands balled into fists where they rested on her lap.

He looked back at the necklace in his hand. A tarnished trinket on a glittery, delicate chain.

The pendant his mother left for him, the chain Susan had chosen for him, to replace some broken, shattered thing. The box of nothings that she'd carried for ten _years_ , that she'd hidden away from her own husband--her _ex-husband_ , now. She'd gathered up her strength and left him, left Neil, but she'd chosen to take Billy with her. Taken what little of him she'd managed to save. She'd carried Billy with her for _years_ and kept this part of him safe.

"This was my mother's," he said, before he could stop himself. "Just about the only thing I have left of her. It's the only thing she gave me when she left him. That's what she did, left me with him."

"And then you got stuck with _me_ ," she said, softly.

"Maybe. But, _you_ came back for me," he said, quietly. "You didn't have to keep any of this, you--"

"Yes I did," she said, fiercely, and her small hand was back squeezing his wrist. "You're--you should've been my son. It might be just--just _nothing_ , but I wasn't going to let just him throw you away like that."

Helplessly, he just nodded and offered a small smile. He was so far out of his depth, so entirely overwhelmed. 

He closed his hand around the pendant. 

He looked back at the box in front of him. At the trinkets and memories within, and the stories they told about him. About the person he was before, and about the man he was becoming. All of it, everything, worth keeping. Worth _saving_.

Carefully, he wrapped the delicate chain around his neck. The clasp was small, fiddly beneath his thick fingers, but it snapped tightly closed.

He let out a breath he didn't notice he'd even been holding, flattened a hand over the pendant where it rested against his sternum. "Listen, I have to head in to work," Billy began, awkwardly. "I, uh--"

"Oh, shoot, I'm sorry! Let me get out of your hair, I didn't mean to keep you so long," she murmured and pulled away to begin gathering up her purse. Her hands still shook a little, but she didn't look so nervous anymore. "It was good to see you again, Billy. I always--Max is protective of you, so she doesn't say much, but I always ask after you."

"I dunno how much Max really says," he said, as he followed her toward the doorway. "We don't really… we're bad at talking about the important shi-- _stuff_ , and good at steering clear of sensitive topics. But I dunno if she mentioned that I just opened a restaurant here in the city? With Robin Buckley, actually, if you remember her, or--or ever really knew her."

Susan nodded, a small, almost _proud_ smile on her face. "There was a little article about you two in the paper. Not--not really much of anything, just a tiny profile. I haven't been brave enough to ask Max, but I assume it's downtown?"

"Just down the street from Steve's office, actually," he said and steeled himself. "Why don't you come by for lunch sometime? If you're in the city, I mean. We can--talk more then," he offered, before he could chicken out entirely.

Susan blinked at him, visibly surprised by the stifled sort of invitation. But she nodded quickly, "Yes, I'd like that. I'll be around on Monday, actually. If that--is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's definitely okay. We won't be fully open to the public yet, just sort of open for friends and family while we work out the kinks, you know? But the door'll be unlocked," he said, and shrugged a little awkwardly. "You can just come on in whenever you have time."

She smiled up at him, and it made his chest _ache_. He remembered that look, but always turned toward Max. He'd seen it on Hopper's face, that day they'd first turned the lights on, Will and Jane's work on full display before them. Seen it on Joyce's, as they spoke about Jon, and what he and Billy had planned.

He could remember, just barely, his own mother looking at him like that. When he was small and young, before he'd been swallowed up by fire.

"I am proud of you," she said, and Billy felt the breath punch out of him. "I have--I bought your book. Watched your shows, too. You've done so much more than he ever would have let you, and I'm so proud of you."

"Jesus, you better get out of here before you have to see me get all weepy," he grumbled, halfheartedly, as he felt the warm, familiar sting at the back of his eyes.

She laughed then, a short and relieved sort of sound. She gently squeezed his wrist again, and the touch was just as warm as any hug. "I'll see you Monday, Billy," she promised. 

He didn't trust his voice, just smiled and nodded. He waved after her, felt stupid for doing so, felt warmed right through when she waved back.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY Y'ALL I DECIDED THAT FUCK PLANS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I KNOW WHAT I SAID BUT I'M JUST SO FUCKING JAZZED FOR Y'ALL TO READ THE WHOLE THING THAT I DECIDED TO FUCK AROUND AND JUST POST THE FINAL THREE CHAPTERS ALL AT ONCE WHICH WAS MY ORIGINAL ORIGINAL PLAN. also if i waited any longer i would keep fiddling with things and honestly i'm happy with it as it is and i want to share it!
> 
> also, who the fuck knew i would enjoy writing tommy so damn much??

"Okay, I know what I said," Tommy began, as he frog-marched Billy off toward the storeroom, "but you shouldn't listen to me."

He rolled his eyes and groaned, dramatically. "Hagan, _please_ , I just want to get in the kitchen."

"Can't. Food senses sadness," he said and shoved Billy unceremoniously inside, just as he'd done the last time they needed a heart to heart. "Gotta fix you first."

"Nothing to fix," he argued, and it was mostly true.

"Bullshit," Tommy said, and once again put himself between Billy and his only route of escape. "So, I'm the last to know, _apparently_ , but--”

“Yeah, you knew Steve back in school, too,” Billy rolled his eyes and found a sturdy shelf to slump back against. "He's a good friend, he's not that mean anymore, he wouldn't have hidden everything if he'd known, blah blah _blah_. I've heard it all, Hagan."

Tommy waggled a finger at him, "Doesn't hurt to hear it again."

"Pretty sure it _does_ ," Billy grumbled under his breath.

“He’s that--I told you about him,” Tommy said. “My friend, the one that--”

“Yeah, _I remember_ ,” Billy grumbled. “I don’t need this right now, Hagan.”

"Yeah, but, it's _Steve_ ," Tommy said, like that answered everything. Maybe it did. "He's a bit oblivious sometimes, but he’s not an asshole anymore.”

“I _know_.”

Tommy looked at him, expectantly, hands on his hips and his eyebrows pushing toward his hairline. “ _And_?”

Billy sighed and thunked his head back against the shelving a couple times. “Listen, Hagan, I appreciate it, but you can’t apologize for someone who hasn’t.”

“I'm not, I'm just making sure you're going to listen when he does," Tommy said, and gave Billy another of those expectant looks. "So? You gonna hear him out?"

"Does he deserve that?"

"It's--it's _Steve_."

"And what about me?" he asked, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Every single thing I've heard from _anyone_ is how good he is. How he isn't an asshole, how I should take him back." He lifted his eyebrows at Tommy," _He_ left. _He_ broke _my_ heart. And all I've heard is how good _he_ is."

Tommy's expression softened a little, brow pulled down low and furrowed. He studied Billy, gave him a long look, lips pursed in thought. It might've been unnerving, but he didn't scare Billy half as much if it had come from Max or Robin. 

He narrowed his eyes a little and nodded to himself. "Okay, but _after_ you make him grovel," Tommy said, and Billy had to laugh at the audacity of it. Couldn't help it. "What about _then_?"

Billy rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "What if I _don't_ want him back? What _then_?"

"You wouldn't mope this much if you didn't," he said, simply.

He groaned and hit his head back against the shelves again. "Have any of you asked _him_ what he's going to do or say to _me_? Any of you asked _him_ what he’s gonna do to get me back?" 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Tommy said, easily. “Of course we have.”

And that was news. His surprise must have shown on his face, because Tommy rolled his eyes and kept going.

"It's not… we aren't saying all this because he's more important. It's because you were happy," Tommy said. "You'd already been together when I got here, and then suddenly it was like seeing a ghost haunting this place."

"I wasn't ever _that_ pathetic."

"Bullshit."

" _Hey_."

"He made you happy," Tommy said, and shook Billy's shoulder a little. "Make him work for it, sure. _Definitely_ do that, he was an idiot. But I just think that you're good together. Too good to just let it go."

"You never saw us together."

"Didn't have to." He shrugged, easily. "I saw you when you two were together. I saw _him_. And I _know_ him. I know he can do some dumb shit when he gets an idea in his head. And pushing you away was dumb as hell."

"Didn't stop him," Billy grumbled.

Tommy sighed, almost fondly. "Never does."

"So what am I _supposed_ to do?"

"Give him a chance. If he does it again, I'll kick his ass," Tommy said, easily, and then roughly shoved Billy back out into the hallway. "Tell Carol I'm looking for her."

Billy made a face and very seriously considered the merits of just locking the door behind him.

  
  
  


For all that everyone had spent so much time telling him just how _good_ and how _kind_ and _genuine_ Steve was, he was still angry. For all that it _worked_ , for all that Billy missed him, Steve still left. Still broke his heart without reason or explanation and that fucking _hurt_. And he believed Tommy, and Lucas and everyone who had said a damn word in Steve's favor. And he believed that they had been giving him just as much shit as they'd given Billy.

But _fuck_ if it still didn't _hurt_.

And he would give him a chance, just like everyone said he should. He _would_. He would just do it on his own time, and his own time wasn't in the middle of making dinner.

He stared at the waiting message for a few moments longer, and set his phone away.

Steve must have watched him ignore the text, because he called about thirty seconds after Billy unceremoniously dropped his phone back to the countertop. And when that went to voicemail, he called again.

And then he called six more times.

The phone would stop rattling on the counter, the screen would go dark. A few seconds of quiet, of cooking onions and heavy rain, and then the phone would light up and buzz again. It was annoying, but, much to Billy’s great displeasure, it worked.

It meant Steve was trying. Even if he'd had to have Tommy, or maybe Robin, kick his ass into gear, he was trying. 

When the phone didn't buzz an ninth time, he sighed and turned the burner down low. When he looked out the window, something he'd managed to keep from doing, he could see the shape of Steve standing in his own kitchen, blurry through the heavy rain. It looked like he was shaking, maybe.

When he dialed the number back, he watched Steve's form jump a little. He hastily wiped at his eyes as he scrambled to pick the phone up, " _H-hey, Billy. I--hey_." 

He sighed. "Hey, Steve."

" _How are you?_ "

"How do you _think_?" he asked, and let himself be mean for a moment. It wouldn’t last, but he figured he'd earned a little bit of pettiness.

" _Will you come over?_ " he asked, weakly. He stared at Billy through the window, and Billy could picture him. He was obscured by the rain, not much more than a shape. But Billy could easily picture him, his eyes wide and nose red and cheeks wet. " _So we can talk?_ "

"We're talking right now," Billy said, because he figured he was allowed to make him work for it--for a few minutes anyway. 

" _Please? Just, I'd like to talk in person, and then…_ " He broke off with a little whimper, tucked his face into his shoulder a moment while he composed himself, and then looked back up at Billy. Outside, the rain was falling faster and harder, blurring his view even further. " _I know I'm not... I-I'm not welcome in your space anymore and, at least if you come over then you can just_ leave _if you need to and never look back._ "

Billy listened to the shaky breaths, a hitch or two as he tried to stay calm, the distant whistle of the kettle on Steve's stove. 

" _Please, Billy,_ ” he begged, weakly. “ _I-I just want to talk. I'd like to-to apologize in person, instead of through a phone. You deserve that._ ”

"Yeah, alright. Gimme fifteen minutes to get cleaned up," he said, and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I reserve the right to leave whenever I want," he added, though he knew he likely wouldn't.

" _Yeah, yeah. That's--yeah. I'll, um, I'll buzz you up when you get here_." 

"Yeah, I'll, uh, see you soon,” Billy promised, and hung up. He looked away from the window before he could watch Steve’s shoulders fall, before any more of his resolve got chipped away.

  
  
  


Billy wasn't sure how he heard it over the rain, or why it made him pause. It was a small sound, a little desperate and definitely afraid. It was _weak_ , especially against the heavy rainfall, and the more he listened, the weaker it got.

He was already pushing a few minutes past what he'd promised, and he felt guilty for it. Because Steve would immediately jump to conclusions, think Billy meant to stand him up. His phone was up on his counter, in his own apartment, safe and dry, and he was already late enough as it was.

But then he heard it again, that plaintive little noise. He sighed and tilted his face up toward the falling rain. His jacket was already soaked through and his shoes had flooded almost the moment he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was already late, but he turned down the alley anyway.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song playing is "st. christopher is coming home" by frank turner

"C'mon, outta the way, Pretty Boy," Billy grumbled toeing off his soaked shoes onto the tray by the door. The bundle in his arms was dangerously still and quiet and he didn't like it one bit. "Got some precious cargo here."

"What? Billy, what are you talking about?" He studied Billy with watery eyes and ruddy cheeks. His trembling hands hovered in front of him. "Did you-- _what_?"

"Bathroom?"

Steve blinked, then nodded, and waved toward the hall. "Yeah, it's the first door, but what--"

"Do you have any, like, unscented dish soap?" 

"Yeah, I think so, but--"

"And some towels?"

" _Yes_ , but Billy--"

Thankfully, miraculously, the sopping bundle emitted a tiny, pathetic little _mew._ Just about the saddest sound Billy had ever heard, but it was a relief. "Some asshole threw kittens into the dumpster," he said, and stepped toward the hallway, careful of his dripping clothes. "Couldn't just leave them. S'why I'm a little late."

"Right, yeah. I'll, uh, grab those and be right there." He blinked at Billy, almost in shock, but then he nodded to himself and hurried off to gather what Billy had asked for. 

The apartment was smaller than Billy's, lit in warm light and littered with mismatched furniture and worn quilts. The rugs were ratty and tilted at odd angles, twisted from use rather than artistically placed. 

The walls were covered with photos and posters, the coffee table littered with familiar nerd detritus that Billy had seen copies of all over Max and Lucas' apartment. There were no less than three Nic Cage sequin throw pillows, and, somehow, Billy wasn't _remotely_ surprised to see them. Robin had threatened him with them before, he was glad to see they'd found a good home.

Steve's apartment was warm and homey and _lived in_. It was welcoming. It was exactly what Billy expected, really. Exactly what he wanted.

The bathroom was clean, but the countertop was littered with hair products and soaps and lotions. The toothpaste tube was squeezed from the middle, the way Billy'd grown so used to seeing. 

He wanted to snoop, to look through the cabinets and learn all he could, but the soaked bundle made another impatient little noise.

He knelt next to the bathtub, careful to set everything down gently. Three dirty, little tufts of fur toddled out of the nest he'd made of his jacket as the basin began to fill with water. He was careful not to let the water run too much, just enough to wet their tiny paws. They were loud and unhappy, all of them screaming up at Billy and the indignity of it all.

It was fucking adorable, and his heart ached at how easily he could have missed them.

"I made dinner," Steve murmured as he knelt down at Billy's side. "I guess we'll worry about that later, though."

"Yeah, we will," Billy promised, and gently nudged Steve with an elbow. "We'll have that talk, okay? Let's just get these little ones cleaned up first, though."

At his side, Steve took a deep breath and nodded. He offered a weak sort of smile and handed Billy the soap he'd asked for. 

They worked slowly, gently cleaning the matted and dirty fur. They weren't newborns, weren't tiny little things, too small to be away from their mothers. They would have gone fast from a shelter adoption page, just the right age to be taken home. 

"They're big enough they should be able to eat solid food," Billy murmured, gently cleaning the muddy fur. The kitten was an angry lump in his palm. Unhappy about being tossed like trash, unhappy with Billy's attention, unhappy with the gentle cleaning. Just generally unhappy. "Will you run to the market and get a couple tins of food? Or look up a kitten food recipe? I don't know how long they've been out there, but they're probably hungry."

Steve blanched immediately. "Oh, I can't make--"

" _Yes you can_ , I don't know how many times I need to tell you that," Billy said, firmly. "You can follow a recipe just fine, and you know it. If I need to yell reassurances from here, while you do it, I will."

He huffed a little laugh and ducked his head a moment, cheeks a little pinker than they'd been. "Running down the street would be faster," murmured, but he was smiling. "I'll, um, I'll be right back, I guess."

"Thank you, Steve."

He made a move to reach for Billy, maybe to squeeze his shoulder or clasp his wrist, but he didn't quite make it that far. His smile turned sad, rueful, and then he was gone.

  
  
  


After, once Steve had returned with a mountain more than just kitten food. Once the little ones had been dried and eaten their fill. Once they'd played themselves tired and chewed their fingertips to ribbons, Billy finally let himself relax.

He could hear music playing, softly, from somewhere deeper in the apartment. All country twang and acoustic guitars, the kind of thing Billy'd missed in Steve's absence.

It was kinda nice, despite the bandages on their fingers and soaked through shirts. He could hear _when the evening casts its shadows on the corners of my days_ in the quiet, and it warmed him through. Something familiar and comforting. _And I am old and I am settled in the place where I will stay._

He leaned back against the wall, a hand beneath the kitten's tail as he slowly climbed up his chest. He kept one leg bent, propped up against the bathtub, and folded the other flat on the floor. 

_When my wandering meanderings have finally reached their end_ filtered into the room. _Yeah whatever else may be, may my friends remember me._

Steve was sat across from him, leaned against the cabinets beneath the sink. He'd crossed his legs, let the little sandy kitten toddle around his lap awhile before he began his own climb up Steve's shirt. The little thing had stopped against Steve's breast bone, too tired to keep climbing and too comfy to let himself be sat back on the floor.

It was cute as hell, really. 

"I like your hair."

Billy flicked his gaze up to Steve's, found glassy eyes and a sad smile. "Did it on a whim, really."

"Looks good." He gave a little chuckle and looked back down at the small kitten. "Or it will when it isn't frizzy."

" _Hey_."

Steve gave another little laugh. When he looked up again, there was a tightness around his eyes, the same tension he'd worn a few nights before. A strain, an effort to keep still. To stay put. That night, he'd wanted to reach for Billy. He'd visibly strained to keep from reaching out.

In the cool bathroom light, he struggled to stay still. He wanted to reach, but he wanted to run, too. 

"I guess we should talk now, huh?" Steve asked, sniffling a little. He offered a tiny, sad smile and nodded to the kitten cradled against Billy's chest. "We're stuck for the moment."

Billy rolled his eyes, "I said we would, I'm not just gonna run out now that they're all cleaned up."

"I know, but…" He broke off with a sigh, "I know. I'm just--I'm afraid, I guess."

"Don't be. I said we would _talk_."

" _I know_ , but I'd fucking deserve it if you just up and left," he muttered, and watched one of the kittens toddle up to him and begin trying to climb up his chest. "I thought--I was so certain you wouldn't show up. That you weren't just _late_ , but you weren't even gonna… I'd have deserved it, but it didn't hurt any less."

"Steve, if I was going to be _mean_ and petty and vindictive, I'd have done it that night at the restaurant. I'd have made a scene and embarrassed everyone within earshot and lost the last shreds of respect any of my friends had for me," he said, and nudged Steve's hip with his foot.

" _Our_ friends," Steve murmured, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Billy chuckled at that. "I still dunno how we were so fucking _dumb_ to miss that," he laughed, watched as the other kitten flopped down on his foot, draped her tiny self across his ankle in a way that didn't look remotely comfortable. "Why didn't you mention Robin? That you had a friend who was opening a restaurant, too?"

Steve shrugged a little, "She always seemed like she wanted to keep it quiet until everything was done and open. She was secretive about it, even with _me_." He gave Billy a weak smile, "She wanted to keep _you_ quiet, didn't she?"

He nodded. "I didn't want to ruin our chances before we could even make it out of the gate," he said, quietly. "Wanted a fair shot, before everyone came for me."

"I get it," Steve murmured. "I don't think you'll have any of that trouble, but I _do_ understand why Robin would want to protect you."

"She does that. Gotten pretty good at it over the years." She really had, too. When he let her, anyway--which, given recent events, was far too often. "Robin used to live in this building. Told me I'd like it, so I jumped at it when they had a place open up. That's why Keith always lets you up, right?"

Steve nodded, "Yeah, and we all went to school with him, too."

Billy groaned and rolled his eyes, "Do you know _everyone_ in this fucking city?"

Steve chuckled a little. "I mean, pretty close, yeah."

"You know my step-mom."

Steve winced. "Okay _that one_ is all on me. I even _knew_ they'd moved from California, never put it together."

"Should've known when Hopper said something. Asked if I had family out here," Billy remembered. "Shoulda been a clue for everyone."

"Yeah, well, I'm a corporate attorney," Steve grumbled. "I only notice stuff if it's written down, which _you_ aren't."

Billy shook his head, fondly, and turned his gaze down toward the little kitten. He was soft and fuzzy, a warm weight against his chest. He hadn't exactly planned on getting a decorative houseplants, let alone three live kittens, but he could get used to it.

The _claws_ he could do without, but they were cute enough that it didn't really matter.

He gently rubbed the little thing's chin with a fingertip, got a tiny little purr for his trouble.

"I need you to know that it had nothing to do with _you_ . Not the way I bet you've been thinking," Steve began, carefully not looking at Billy. He was staring down at the little sandy-colored kitten. The little thing had proven to be grumpy and bitey, but was cute as hell with his little nubbin of a tail. "I just… everyone _leaves_."

"Who said I was going to leave?" Billy asked, and tried not to flinch at the pricks of kitten claws in his shoulder as the little kitten tried to reach higher ground. "Where'd you even get that idea?"

"Your apartment was bare and empty, and I--I panicked, I guess." He sighed and looked down at the kitten cradled in his hands. "What's this one's name?"

"Gnocchi," Billy answered, instantly. "Look at him, he's not a cat, he's a fluffy, little dumpling."

Steve laughed and nodded, wiping at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. " _Gnocchi_. I like it."

"He sure likes you."

"I'm glad _someone_ does. _God_ , I thought Max was gonna take my head off," he muttered.

And that was new information. Lucas hadn't said anything about Max and Steve and any _yelling_ that may have occurred. "She's, uh, protective."

"She certainly is _that_ ," he agreed. 

"You should be glad she just yelled," he reasoned, gently. "If she didn't like you, she'd've taken your kneecaps with her when she left."

"I don't think that's as reassuring as you want it to be," he muttered, sullenly.

"I dunno how reassuring I really _have_ to be right now." He sighed and shook his head, "You just _left_ , Steve."

"Everything was in boxes! Like--like you were getting ready to move, and your apartment was empty and I saw _Always Be My Maybe_ and you said your clothes were _packed up_ like-like that's where they were gonna _stay_ and--"

Billy sighed. " _Steve_ \--"

"-- _and_ you said you were opening a restaurant. And I knew, I just _knew_ you were going to go off and open _another_ one some place else, because that's what people like you _do_ and I just… I panicked."

"You panicked," he said, dryly.

"Yes." He watched the blonde kitten yawn and stretch and twist and drape herself further over Billy's ankle. "What about that one? What's her name?"

She was small and skinny, and seemed to like twisting herself into all kinds of shapes. Her fur was twisted, like it would curl as she grew into it. "Spätzle."

Steve huffed a little laugh, and nodded like he knew what that even meant. Hell, maybe he did. There was a lot, still, that Billy didn't know about the man. _Clearly_. "I like it."

"Steve, listen--"

"What about that other one," he interrupted, chin wobbling a little. Like he was about to be let down and proven right and pushed aside. "What's his name?"

The kitten that clung tight to Billy's shirt was long and had squat little legs. A munchkin mix and he didn't want to imagine how much the kitten would have cost had they not been stolen and thrown out as they were. He was a pretty brick color, had tiny folded ears and a puffy tail.

"Soba."

Steve smiled. It was weak, and wobbly, and it softened the last of Billy's resolve. 

"I get why you would jump to that conclusion," he reasoned, softly, "but, at no point in time did I _ever_ say I was going to leave."

"But you never said you were gonna _stay_ , either. My parents left and then they just-- _kept leaving_. Nancy left me. And then Robin ran off to New York and then _Europe_ . Max and the kids all grew up and stopped needing me," Steve said, almost whisper-quiet. "I'm sorry, I just… I'm so used to people _leaving_ , and I didn't want to fall any more in love with you than I already am, just to have you go away, too."

"Alright, I'm gonna say it plain. I'm here to _stay_ , Steve," Billy said, nudging his hip with a toe. "Everyone I give a shit about is here. Everyone I _love_ is here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah?"

" _Yes_ , I'm not heading off any time soon, Pretty Boy. You're stuck with me," he promised, and dug a toe into Steve's hip again, just to see him squirm. "And if I _do_ head off somewhere else, I'm gonna wanna take you with me."

"Good. That--that's good. And, besides, you can't go anywhere yet," Steve laughed, a wet sound, but _happy_. "You still gotta sharpen my knives."

Billy laughed a little, before he could stop himself. Soba made a small, indignant noise at being jostled and dug tiny claws into Billy's chest to keep from toppling off, but he didn't mind. "Yeah, yeah I do."


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT. THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE FIC. minus the epilogue, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooo thank you all for putting up with my erratic ass and sticking with this fic, you all mean the world to me and and i'm just FEELING SO MANY THINGS RIGHT NOW. this is really it. the last chapter of the main fic. AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH. I DID IT.
> 
> epilogue will be up in a few days, we all know just how much i like to stick to plans..

Steve looked positively pathetic. 

He was bundled up in bed, just a mop of fluffy hair and wide, glassy eyes peeking out at Billy over the worn quilt. He was cute, made Billy’s heart ache just to look at him. 

The kittens were taken care of, all cuddled up and purring in a cardboard box in the bathroom. Steve had folded up a blanket beneath them, fluffy and warm, while Billy had tried his best to clean up and kitten-proof the bathroom. 

He'd been offered dry clothes, after, with a soft stutter and pink cheeks. A pair of too long, worn-soft sweats and a band t-shirt that had disappeared out of Billy's apartment weeks before. 

He hadn’t bothered to think, at the time, about all that Steve had taken with him. All that he had left lying on Billy's bedroom floor. For awhile, it had given him hope. Like he thought Steve would be back for it. And when it had become apparent that he _wouldn't_ , Billy had merely tried his damnedest to ignore it. To just--cut his losses and stop thinking about it altogether. Pack it all away in unused drawers and parts of his closet where light didn't reach.

He buried his nose in the fabric. It smelled like sharp citrus and spice. It smelled like _Steve_. That scent that followed him out the door in the morning, that he left all over Billy's apartment, that sank so thoroughly into Billy's skin he didn't think he'd ever be able to wash it away completely. Like he hadn't taken the shirt off once, not until it had long-since stopped smelling like Billy's own cologne.

He pulled the thing over his head and stepped out of the bathroom, careful not to wake the kittens as he shut the door behind him. 

Steve cuddled up to him almost the moment he slipped into bed, face pressed down into the crook of Billy's neck. "Stay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll stay for tonight."

"No, stay forever,” he whined, and pulled back enough to give Billy a pleading look. 

"No, princess, we're gonna do this _right_ this time," Billy chuckled. "Slower than we've been going."

Steve made a face, but nodded. There was a small furrow between his brows, one that hadn’t really eased since Billy had arrived. "Are you mad at me?"

And that was the million dollar question. He had every right to be, didn't he? Steve had just _left_. No word but a single text, that had been a _lie_ at that, small as it was. He’d walked into Billy’s life and then right back out. But Billy had done far worse before. "I think I _should_ be," Billy murmured, and propped his head up on an elbow. "I mean, I definitely _deserve_ to be. But…"

Steve didn't say anything, just chewed on his lip as he waited for Billy to say his piece.

"Almost all of my problems over the past _decade_ can be traced directly back to me bottling shit up and then acting on impulse with less information than I think I've got," Billy said. "Honestly, a part of me _is_ angry. But the rest, the bigger part, is just, like--so _this_ is how Robin and Max and Heather all feel when I pull this shit. _This_ is what they go through, on an almost _monthly_ fucking basis, when I decide to lose my mind."

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered.

"I know. It's okay."

"It's just--everything was in _boxes_. You never said you hadn't unpacked yet, and we were only ever in the kitchen or bed. You never showed me the rest of your place, and I just didn't notice until I _did_." He sighed and turned his face into the pillow a little. "Until it was so _obvious_ that there was so much about you I didn't even _know_."

"So you bottled shit up, instead of talking to me, and acted on impulse," Billy muttered. "That is my _entire_ MO. And, it turns out, it's real hard to deal with the fallout on this side of it."

“Yeah, well what would _you_ have done? After--a night like _that_ , already keyed up about _abandonment_ issues and all that,” Steve said. “If you had woken up alone _here_ , and everything was just--just packed up and labeled like I was getting ready to move. Like, what if there were empty rooms that I'd _never even shown you_ , just filled up with boxes. What would you have done?”

The old Billy would have lost his goddamn mind. He'd have broken a few things on his way out the door, left a nasty voicemail and made it known _exactly_ what he thought of the situation. He'd have burned that bridge without a second thought, without a moment of hesitation. He'd have taken it out on everyone in his path, damaged some property and, probably, his liver.

“Six months ago? Probably would have left, like you did. Lost my mind a little. Probably would’ve made a big, messy scene about it, too.” He shrugged a little. “But now? I’d have tried to talk to you about it, first.”

“Would you really?”

"I'd have done a bad job of it, and come in real hot and angry, but yeah." He shrugged again. “It’s a fairly recent development, if I’m honest. Didn’t really notice, exactly, but Tommy pointed it out awhile back. Got me thinking about all the stuff about me that’s changed since I met you. How much of it--how much was for me and how much of it was for you.”

Steve blinked at him, eyes wide and glassy. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. “

“And, uh, what was the answer?”

“I don’t think I did a whole lot of changing _for you_. Maybe tried to be softer? Tried to be kinder to myself, so I could be kinder to the people around me. Tried to listen a little slower, stop putting words and intentions where they didn't belong. But most of it was for me, I think,” Billy answered, honestly. “Seems like you just… you gave me somewhere safe to stay while I changed. Does that make sense? You made it--easier, I suppose. Gave me some place safe, something steady, after a lifetime of running. Gave me a chance to remember how to be a person again, so I could maybe learn to be a better one.”

Steve carefully reached out for him, curled a hand in Billy’s shirt, just over his heart. 

"I'm just… I don't think I'm actually angry at you anymore. I _want_ to be, because I've lived in that anger for such a long time that it's second nature, but I'm not. I get it," Billy promised, softly. He clasped a hand over Steve’s wrist, to hold him steady. "But I don't think we can just--just pick up where we left off, either. We went much too fast, we gotta take it a little slower this time around."

Steve nodded, then paused. He cast Billy a wary look, brow furrowed. "How slow?"

"You're not gonna stay over _every single night_ , and we're gonna go on actual _dates_ , and we're gonna…" Billy shuffled closer, wrapped Steve up against his chest. "We talk all the time, but it's like… we either have these big, important conversations about--about our _trauma_ , or we just bullshit about food and mindless shit that doesn't really matter. We share scars, but we don't talk about who we were when we got them. I don't even know your favorite color. I mean, I know you play D&D like Max--"

" _With_ Max," Steve muttered, and Billy didn't have to see him wince to know that it had happened.

"And I only know _that_ from some off-hand comment you made, not an actual conversation. You tell me about people you know and things they've done, and I don't even know what sports you played in high school." Billy blew out a long breath, "I don't know your Starbucks order. I don't know your hobbies or your skills, I didn't even know you could _sing_ until you did."

"Well, I don't know _your_ hobbies, either," Steve muttered, a little petulantly. 

"Maybe not, but I don't even _have_ hobbies. I work _constantly_. I work, workout, I feel sorry for myself, lose my mind a little, and then go back to work," he grumbled. "I didn't have anything else until you came along."

"That's not true," Steve argued. "You have Max and Robin and Lucas. You have people."

"Doesn't mean I ever let them get close. I pushed Robin away, as much as I could. Did that for a long time. Did the same thing we did; just _existed_ together, without really moving _forward_. We got close there, at the start, and then I started to push her away. Didn't really start _talking_ to Max until I got here," Billy listed off. "I lost my mind for awhile there, and just worked real hard to push everyone away. And then I ended up _here_ . Ended up with _you_.”

“And I helped?”

“Yeah, you _helped_ ,” he murmured, and laughed a little. He leaned in to knock his forehead against Steve’s, just rested there a moment. “So we’re gonna take our time, you an’ me. We’re not gonna rush in and get hurt again.”

"But you're gonna stay tonight?"

Billy nodded, comfy and warm and at ease. He shuffled back a little, so he could see Steve’s pretty face properly. He'd teared up again, something like relief written across his face. "Yeah, it's late and the kids are asleep. Don't wanna wake 'em."

Steve gave him a watery little smile, pushed the heel of his hand against his cheek to push away tears. "Yeah, kids get grumpy if they don't sleep."

Billy gently bopped his nose, just to watch him laugh. It had been so long since he’d seen that. "So do _you_ , so go on and close those pretty eyes."

"You still think m'pretty?"

Billy huffed a little laugh, "I always think you're pretty."

"Yeah?"

" _Yes_. Always."

Steve immediately blushed, ducked his head a little. "Oh. Well. That's, uh, that's good." When he looked back up at Billy, it was through his lashes, all warm eyes and bitten lips. 

Billy chuckled, "Alright, turn that off and go to sleep. You're not gonna flirt your way out of bedtime."

He got a pout for his trouble. Playful and teasing behind red, puffy eyes and flushed cheeks. 

"Don't look at me like that, we need to go to _sleep_ ," Billy chuckled. "In the morning, we'll heat up leftovers, take the kids to a vet to get checked out, and then you're coming to brunch with me."

Steve gave him a quizzical sort of look, head tilted adorably. "Brunch?"

"Yeah, our first date is gonna be a double date." Billy said, just to watch the confusion play out over Steve's face. _God_ , and it was cute, too.

"Double-- _what_? With _who_?" 

"Max and Lucas." He said, easily, and not-so-secretly enjoyed watching the slowly dawning horror on Steve's face. 

"But it's Sunday. Max always gets brunch with… her brother," he said, slowly. "Oh. Oh, _no_."

Billy laughed and Steve buried his face in his pillow and gave a long, despondent groan. "Yeah, yeah, we do."

"I'm gonna be eaten alive."

"Probably," Billy agreed, jovially, and gently pat his head. "But they'll be happy to see you an' me together.”

Steve groaned again, "But they’re gonna _yell_ , probably. I don't wanna get yelled at anymore."

"Been getting a lot of that?" Billy asked, and got an unimpressed look for his trouble. 

"I _swear_ , if any of them had let me get a word in, we might've had this cleared up days ago," Steve muttered, sullenly. "But I just kept thinking that… Every time, they kept telling me to call, and--what if it was better if I _didn't_? What if you were better off without me. Like, I _wanted_ to call and explain myself, but every time someone said anything, or whatever, I just thought--maybe I would just make it _worse_ again."

"Why would you think that?" Billy asked, gently.

Steve just gave him a flat look. "Just look at the mess I made _this_ time around."

"Well what were they saying? When you were getting yelled at, what were they saying?"

"How much I hurt you," he said, quietly.

"And how you should call me and fix it?" Billy guessed. 

He got a little nod. "How badly I fucked up. How _miserable_ we both were."

Billy settled a hand on Steve's waist, to hold him steady. "They weren't telling you that _because_ you fucked up."

"I did, though."

"You did a little bit, but I mean… they weren't saying that so you could fix _me_ ," Billy clarified, trying to find some words to say to make it make sense. "They might have said it a little louder to you, than to me, but they just--saw how happy you were when we were together. Just wanted you to get back to that."

"Doubt it."

" _Steve_ , babe, if all our friends were convinced that you had fucked up beyond repair, why would they try and push us back together?" Billy asked, and bit down a smile at Steve's confused face. "Why would they have spent so much time and effort trying to convince _me_ that you were worth taking back?"

Steve blinked at him, a little shocked. "Oh."

He thought back to what Tommy had said, how they had been talking to Steve, too. "I got angry, for a bit there, thinking that you weren't getting cornered like I was. Weren't getting sad, meaningful eye contact. Tommy set me straight, though. Reminded me that--it's like you said. I have people who care about me, the way they care about you."

Steve nodded, "You _do_."

"I know. I'm trying to remember that, you know? It’s weird, slowing down enough to actually, you know, _see it_.” He offered a small smile. “But I’m getting there.”

"Good, that--that's _good_." 

Billy nodded in agreement, and bent to press a kiss to Steve's cheek. "Now _go to sleep_."

"Don't wanna."

"Well, it's been a long day."

"But then I won't get to see you," Steve whined, petulant and teasing, despite his drooping eyes.

"Then _dream_ of me," Billy laughed. "I'll still be here, babe. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Steve sighed, dramatically. " _Fine_."

Billy just rolled his eyes and tugged Steve against his chest. He went easily, tucked himself up beneath Billy's chin. He hadn't released his grip on Billy's shirt and didn't seem to have any plans to do so. He just pressed as tightly into Billy's throat as he could, curled a leg up around Billy's knee. 

He relaxed, finally. All the tightness in his spine slipped away in increments, until he was soft and limp against Billy's chest. 

It was just as good as Billy remembered. Better, maybe. Both of them on the same page, finally. A better foundation to build from, another chance to do it right.

And Billy _would_. He silently promised himself he would. Never give Steve a reason to doubt him again, never try and hide. Never hold himself back, never let Steve try and do it, either. He wouldn't let himself thoughtlessly fuck it up, not if he could help it.

He nestled down into Steve's hair, pressed a small kiss there, and tightened his arms. Tangled them up so thoroughly and completely that it would take a miracle to break them apart.

He closed his eyes and settled down to sleep.

Tried to, anyway.

"I forgot to put the food in the fridge," Steve murmured into the darkness, about the time they both heard something topple off the bathroom counter. 

Billy groaned and sat up, sent a betrayed glare toward the closed bathroom door like it would change anything.

"Who d'you think that was?" Steve asked around a yawn. 

"The little grumpy one," Billy answered, immediately, because if any of them were gonna be troublemakers, and learn to climb a cupboard like that, it would be that little jerk. " _Gnocchi_."

"He's _your_ son." Steve chuckled, and pinched Billy's hip. 

"Yeah, but he likes _you_ more," he argued, and bent back down to nuzzle against Steve's temple. "You go clean up, I'll see to the children," Billy said and peppered a few dozen kisses across Steve's cheeks. "Meet you back here in five?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Steve promised. He smiled sweetly up at Billy, eyes still a little puffy. He didn't look sad anymore, didn't look three seconds off from crying. He looked hopeful, maybe. He looked _happy_.

The kittens could wait a few more minutes, he decided.

Billy bent and pressed a kiss to Steve's plush mouth. And then another and another, as if he could make up for all that lost time. Kissed him until his Pretty Boy _sighed_ , a happy little sound, and brought his hands up to cup Billy's cheeks. Until he _gasped_ and shook. Until he sank his fingers into Billy's hair and held on like he never wanted to let go.


	40. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooo this is the end of this fic! the epilogue that has been finished for forever and i have been DYING for you all to read it. if i can a little cocky about anything, its how much I love this chapter. and now i am just gonna go buy a piece of cake from my favorite bakery and go into the wilderness to camp this weekend and chill and not doomscroll and CHILL and hopefully not literally chill and freeze to death cuz my tent and sleepy bag are good, but they may not be that good..
> 
> thank you all so fucking much for sticking with me and this fic <33 for real real, you all mean the world to me and i hope the fic brought you all a little bit of distraction from the everything™
> 
> THIS fic is done, but i like this verse, so i'm probably gonna write some more little companion ficlets because it’s nice and soft here and i’m not ready to leave yet. there are a few set between the last chapter and the epilogue that I want to write, some stuff post-epilogue and one or two around the time of 'to carry within us an orchard.' i'm just not ready to leave yet. once we're all vaccinated and times are just a hair less stressful i'll get back to the weird shit i used to write, but if i cannot have a soft world right now i will make one myself
> 
> the official lbr soundtrack that [FlashMountian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain) / [@awickedplacethisis](https://awickedplacethisis.tumblr.com/) was nice enough to put because i didn't have one is over [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1wXUETnsglWzbpcGY1I0KO)!
> 
> i finally got around to actually making a spotify account awhile back and i put all the b-sides i wrote into the fic into a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/77x3ULuz9gPRvzcEIh4p7S)!!
> 
> also you can bother me at my [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) but its mostly wrestling and dumbassery and depression shitposts
> 
> i'm so sure i'm forgetting something because i ALWAYS forget shit, but just a huge big massive thabk you to all of you for sticking with me for this fic, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! <3333

**_Two years, and one day, later_ **

The only real, actual, legitimate problem with sharing a bed with Billy Hargrove was that he _burrowed_. 

Occasionally there would be nights when he'd be _exhausted_ and would _sprawl_ , when he'd starfish out and fall asleep where he fell. There were nights after a particularly tough day in court, when Billy would curl around Steve and cradle him close. There were nights, even, after arguments, where they didn't sleep _at all_ \--where they would try and sleep separately or just lie stiffly next to each other, not talking or touching or yielding until morning light filtered through the window.

But _most_ nights, Billy burrowed. 

And it wasn't really a _problem_ , so much as Steve's arm was currently held captive and he really needed it back.

Billy had already been asleep when Steve had _finally_ stumbled in at about 2 a.m. But, in typical Billy fashion, the moment Steve had slipped into bed he'd rolled over and burrowed his head up under Steve's chin with a contented _sigh_. And Steve? He'd been stuck. He hadn't even fully settled into bed, and suddenly Billy was snuffling against his chest and he'd lost any and all will to move.

Now, though, his shoulder ached from the awkward angle, and his arm was asleep from the elbow down. Billy's curls had, somehow, ended up in Steve's mouth, Soba had taken up his customary position draped across Billy's neck and was _snoring_ \--because that's just what Soba did, now--and there was the heat of Gnocchi curled up in the bend of Steve's knees like the fat lump he was.

It was a problem.

He started with Soba, the munchkin had the sweetest temperament of all the cats and would complain the least about being rudely awakened. True enough, he came awake with the tiniest of mews and didn't do a damn thing when Steve carefully lifted him off and to the side. He simply yawned and stretched himself out against the line of Billy’s back.

Next was the real problem. How to untangle himself from Billy's hold without getting caught again, waking him, or dislodging Gnocchi.

Gnocchi was the wildcard. Gnocchi did _not_ take kindly to being disturbed. Gnocchi loved Steve the most, but only when he stayed still. Gnocchi was, in Billy's own words, a little son of bitch disguised as a fat, little fuzz dumpling.

 _But_ , Billy had a tight grip on Steve's shirt and had tangled their legs into a knot. 

If he started at the top, Billy would have time to burrow close again and cling to Steve's chest like an oversized sugar glider. If he moved Gnocchi first, the lump would make threatening sounds while relocating to an even more inconvenient position. If he started with the pretzel his legs had been tangled into, he'd disturb Gnocchi anyway and probably end up with teeth and claws in parts of his body where he did not _want_ teeth and claws.

In the end, he got out with a stern love-nibble to the back of his calf, a knee to the balls as Billy made an unhappy sound and tried to shuffle closer, and he'd had to do some incredibly dignified--and not _at all_ embarrassing--acrobatics to slip out of the t-shirt that Billy had an iron-tight grip on. All-in-all, no worse than usual for a Saturday morning. 

By the time he was stumbling back out of the bathroom, Billy's face was buried in the shirt he'd stolen during Steve's escape. Nothing but the Clark Kent ass curl, that always hung over his forehead, visible above his nest of blankets. It was a familiar sight, if he was honest. He'd managed to get good at getting out of bed without waking Billy--regardless of how well he'd been caught.

He shook his head, fond as ever, and slipped on a ratty pair of sweats and a soft tee. He gathered up the clothes he'd left to wrinkle in a pile on the floor and stuffed them into the hamper--only _just_ managing to remember to remove his wallet and other sundries. 

He dumped his wallet and keys on top of the dresser, where Billy insisted they belonged, and carefully slipped the small box safely into his pocket. 

The weight of it made him giddy, made him laugh a little, made him bite his lip to keep his eyes dry and his voice soft. He watched Billy sleep a moment longer, traced the shape of the box with his fingertip, and headed downstairs to start breakfast.

The weight of the box smacked against his thigh with each step.

His good mood was short lived, once he spied his old enemy, The Table, in the entryway at the base of the stairs.

He didn't know _why_ Billy insisted on having a table there. It seemed to just be used to house a vase of flowers, and not much else. Billy didn't even let him put mail on it, which was just _silly_. 

It _was_ pretty, a dark walnut burl and swirls of blue resin, but the only thing the table seemed to actually be _good_ for was bumping into every time Steve was even remotely in the vicinity. His hips had constant bruises from bumping into the damn thing. They'd had it for a little over a year, his toes still hadn't recovered yet. 

He'd walked straight into the thing the night before, because of course he did. It happened in broad daylight when he could see the table clearly, obviously it would happen at two a.m. when he slipped in without turning the lights on.

The flowers, _thankfully_ , hadn't toppled over when he bumped into it the night before. Billy would be crushed to know the fruits of his garden had been so carelessly treated, and _Steve_ would be crushed to hear Billy passive-aggressively mention water stains for the next three weeks. Whatever he knocked to the floor had _hurt_ when it fell onto his already stubbed toe, but at least it hadn't involved broken glass and dripping water.

What _was_ lying on the floor, though, was a book. Which meant it was _Billy's_ book, the final proof from the printer before it was released in a couple weeks. _Finally_ there for Steve to see, Billy no longer keeping it secret. He'd claimed he wanted to wait until it was _perfect_ before he let Steve see it.

The book was thick, much bigger than Steve had imagined it would be. _Heavy_. Honestly, he was surprised he didn't break a toe when it landed on his foot the night before. Leave it to Billy to--

His fond exasperation cut off when he finally _looked_ at the book. Saw the cover, saw the photo Billy had chosen.

It was the four of them, all of them in the kitchen making last year's Thanksgiving dinner. The first big meal in their new house, half their things still in boxes. Steve was standing to one side of the sink, a look of surprise on his face as he'd paused in whatever he'd been chopping. His hair was still sleep-mussed and wild. There was a smidge of cocoa powder across his cheek and his hands stained red with beet juice. Max was at Billy's side, flour drenched hands in mid-recoil as she cackled. Lucas was behind them all, watching in pure _terror_ , as Spatz surveyed the scene from her customary spot atop the fridge.

Billy himself was mostly obscured by the explosion of flour against his face. He hadn't had any chance to react at the time, hands still stuck in sticky dough. He remembered seeing Billy trying so damn hard to keep from laughing, to keep his expression deadly serious.

He turned a few pages to the title page, and there was the immediate aftermath: Max leaving white, powdery handprints on Steve's shoulders, trying to use him as a human shield; Lucas a _blur_ as he ran for cover, and Spatz leaping from her perch to run after him; Steve himself laughing so hard he was struggling to hold himself upright; Billy, his entire upper body covered in flour, giving them both a placid, dangerous look, pulling dough from the bowl as he prepared for a food fight.

The back cover was from a slightly different angle, but three of them again. The kitchen, in the photo, was more than a little worse for wear. There was a knife embedded in a cutting board—a _blessedly_ bloodless accident of Steve slipping and slamming the thing down as he scrambled for purchase—a bowl overturned and dough slowly crawling onto the counter, splatters of flour on every surface, vegetables and giblets everywhere. And in the middle of it all, _them_. Steve, his face clasped between dough covered hands, with rosemary and thyme tangled in his hair. He was grinning, his lips dusted white. Billy, still _covered_ with flour, streaked with gravy and beet juice and mashed potatoes, grinning back at him, his hips stuck in Steve's grip.

And between them, an absolute mess of stuffing and gravy and wet pie filling, was Max, desperately struggling to get out of the group hug that pinned her in place. She was glowering dangerously at the camera, and Steve remembered that it had been Robin cackling in the corner, snapping photos, with Lucas using her as a human shield.

Robin had had a blast that day, documenting the hurricane of flour, sending updates to Heather, halfway across the world, in real time. There were even _more_ of her snapshots littered throughout the book, too. Between Billy's recipes and Jonathan's photos, there were silly photos of them all. Steve grinning, dusty glasses pushed up into his hair; Billy mid-throw, a glob of dough headed straight for the camera; Max, dripping with uncooked pumpkin pie filling and hiding a gravy boat behind her back, as she pressed a kiss to Lucas' pristinely clean cheek; Lucas giving Max a dry, unimpressed look as she emptied the gravy onto his head.

 _God_ , that day was something else. The best Thanksgiving he'd ever had, best _holiday_. Best food fight since Senior Prank Day. Best gravy he'd ever made--the _second_ batch, anyway--without assistance. Susan, once she'd arrived to find them mid-clean, had had trouble even _looking_ at any of them without bursting into laughter.

It had been the happiest day of Steve's life, actually. Until the next day, and then the day after. Every day with Billy tended to be like that, though.

There were _other_ photos and pictures littered along with Robin's. Polaroids, grainy cell phone pics, washed out shots from the Holga Jonathan had given them their first Christmas together.

Steve half asleep, cast in shadow by the rose gold morning light at his back, steam curling up from the mug cradled to his chest. Steve singing something into a dirty whisk, Jonathan just behind him and drunk enough to be playing air guitar on a rolling pin, while Will beat the counter with rubber spatulas. Steve and Dustin facing the stove as he gave lessons on cooking the perfect pasta, Spatz watching off to the side as she waited impatiently for Dustin's attention. Steve and Max, at Susan's kitchen sink, throwing soap suds into each other's faces. Steve, tongue poking from between his teeth as he concentrated on the paperwork he was reading. Steve, blurry in mid-recoil, as hot oil popped at him from the stovetop. Steve sitting on the kitchen counter, bathed in candle light; Steve in profile, eyes closed, smelling a ripe peach at a market stall; Steve unraveling a bright orange in the fading evening light, head bent and a curl hair hanging over his forehead.

 _Steve_. 

He was on damn near every page of the book, mentioned in every paragraph, his presence in every line. 

There was no dedication page, because it didn't _need_ one. It was clear as day who it was _for_.

He heard the unsteady, dragging footsteps down the stairs behind him, and suddenly the ring box in his pocket was _heavy_.

Billy stumbled into Steve's back, forehead pressed to the nape of his neck. "Woke up an' thought you got raptured," he murmured, sleepily. 

Steve just nodded, not yet trusting himself to speak.

"D'you like it?" Billy asked, quietly. He stifled a yawn into the space between Steve's shoulder blades, and wrapped his arms around Steve's waist.

"I love it, Billy."

"Yeah?"

" _Yes_. It's wonderful," he said, softly, and dropped a hand to cover the one gently stroking over his belly. "It's a _brick_. You could take that to the gym with you."

"Yeah, but you already said you liked it," he countered, chuckling. "No take-backs."

"No take-backs," he agreed, with a small smile, as he gently rocked them back and forth. "Sorry I missed dinner." 

"S'okay. Lucas texted to let me know you got caught," Billy said around a yawn. He didn't sound angry, didn't sound disappointed. He was just as used to Steve's late nights as Steve was to his. "Happy anniversary."

Steve set the book aside and turned in the embrace, eager to get his arms around his ridiculous man. He nuzzled against Billy's temple, pressing kisses as he went, "Happy anniversary, baby. Let me make it up to you?"

A soft laugh, nothing more than a shake in his shoulders and a puff of warm breath against Steve's collarbone. "You already have."

Fucking _ridiculous_ man. With his restaurant and his hands and his goddamn _face_. Who knew every which way Steve liked his eggs, depending on his mood. Who professed to hate Gnocchi, but still carried him around like a fat, swaddled baby when he thought Steve couldn't see. Who, despite getting better at it, didn't voice even a fraction of what was running through his head, but said _enough._ Who knew just where and how and when to kiss Steve to get him to melt into a gooey puddle in his arms.

Who loved so _fiercely_ that he sometimes got lost in it, got consumed by it. Who loved so hard that it sometimes _hurt_.

Who loved _Steve_ so, _so_ much. 

He loved so hard that Steve often felt inadequate. Like he couldn't give Billy back everything that he gave, everything he deserved. But if Billy could love him _like that_ , see something in him _worthy_ of that love, _deserving_ of it, then perhaps he was doing something right, after all.

Billy wrote him a _book_. A love letter in teaspoons and sauce pans. A whole book, just for him. About him, about _them_. So big and bright and full of their _home_ , their _family_. Filled to the brim with the life they'd _made_ together, one meal at a time. 

Billy wrote him a _book._

He didn't know why _anyone_ would say Billy had trouble saying things. He said _so much_ , so big and loud that it sometimes made Steve's head ring, even if he struggled to say it out loud.

He hummed, a sleepy sort of sound, and pressed tighter into the crook of Steve's neck for a moment. "Breakfast?"

"Pancakes?"

Billy hummed, happily, and pulled away. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth and then turned toward the kitchen. "You grab the book and start the coffee."

Steve watched him go, smiling, and then hefted the book again before following along. The ring was heavy in his pocket. 

He paused to reach up and greet Spatz with a gentle chin scritch, got a little trill for his trouble. She liked her spot, high above them all, perched like a watchful gargoyle. They'd once tried to put a pillow up for her, and she'd avoided it for three days before batting it off and reclaiming her throne.

She gave another chirrup and gently batted at his hand with a single outstretched paw.

She put up with them, but the only person she willingly came down for was Dustin. He hoped she'd be happier once Dustin was _finally_ finished with his degree, once he could move to Chicago with the rest of them. 

He shook the thought away, and looked toward Billy again.

He thought about getting out the eggs, maybe some bacon. Making a full spread to go with the orange scented pancakes Billy always made for him. But the ring was _heavy_ in his pocket.

It wasn't how he'd wanted to do it, half asleep and yawning. 

But Billy was zesting an orange, eyes half lidded and his smile small and sweet. He looked _soft_ , clad in just Steve's stolen shirt and boxers. He was lit up in golds, morning sun lighting him up like a beacon, tugging Steve closer and closer.

Billy blinked at him, eyes bright in the morning light. He was smiling, expression soft and small.

And then his eyes widened, tracking his movements and following Steve down as he knelt on the floor.

"Steve?"

The ring box was heavy in his hand, ring glinting in the morning light. 

He'd chosen rose gold, simply because he liked the way it looked against the sun-kissed tan of Billy's skin. He wanted to see it, more than anything. 

The band around the middle of the ring was his favorite part. The charred, stained color of an aged oak cask. From the same barrel of scotch they'd tasted during their trip to Scotland, the year before, and Steve thanked god--whichever one out there agreed that Billy deserved nice things--that he was somehow able to get his hands on it.

"You are the most… _ridiculous_ man I have ever met in my whole, entire life," he said, softly, chuckling a little. His heart pounded away in his chest, and he wondered if Billy could hear it. "You always hog the blankets, and you _never_ pick up your socks, and you _always_ dump half to food on the floor when you feed the cats, and--and you're so goddamn _sweet_ that I don't even mind picking up after you. Lord knows you don't complain about cleaning up the kitchen after I've made a mess of it, so I guess it's only fair. You're fiery and you're fierce and _so_ funny. And brave, Billy, you're so fucking _brave_. You make me want to be brave, too. You make me want to go on adventures and, baby, these last years have _been_ a hell of an adventure with you. You make me smile, and you make me laugh, and you make sure that I know you still love me, even when we're fighting, and...

"And my life is so much better with you in it," Steve finished, as words began to stick and catch in his throat. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Billy Hargrove. Whatever that means, and wherever that is, for as long as you'll have me."

He was _staring_ , unmoving and--and then he _stepped away_. 

Billy stepped back and turned away from him, and, for a few paralyzing heartbeats, Steve went cold with dread.

But then he caught a smile curving Billy's lips, a sweet little thing. He caught the shine of tears wetting the corners of Billy's eyes, clinging to his thick, dark lashes like morning dew. He caught a slight quake in Billy's hands as he reached for something he'd hidden away on the countertop.

He caught a stutter in Billy's chest, nervous, _happy_ laughter trying to bubble up out of him.

He caught a quiver to his chin as Billy looked back at him, expression open and hopeful.

Billy was _trembling_ when he dropped to his knees, shaking his head at Steve in fond exasperation. "Always gotta beat me to it, Pretty Boy," he muttered. His voice shook, just like the rest of him. He gently grabbed Steve's hand and slipped the band down his finger. 

It wasn't entirely dissimilar to the ring Steve had picked. But where Steve had chosen rose gold, Billy had chosen Damascus steel--the same familiar, almost wood grain, pattern of his favorite knives. Where Steve had chosen whiskey-stained oak, Billy had chosen _turquoise_ . Ocean blue and bright as Billy's eyes. It was heavy. It was _good._

"I had a _plan_ , and you just had to go and trample all over it," he chuckled, still shaking like a leaf. He watched, rapt, as Steve slid the ring down his own finger, rose gold glinting. "Like _usual._ "

Steve snorted, inelegant and gross and thick with tears. "Yeah? What plan was that, huh? Gonna make me dinner? Gonna wine and dine me?"

"Yeah, had it all set up before Lucas called," he grumbled, but it was light and teasing. His blue eyes sparkled and glittered, clear and bright and wet with tears. He watched with something close to _wonder_ as he traced the band of metal wrapping around Steve's finger, and then his own. "Was gonna be romantic as _shit_."

"What was it? Something _fancy_ , I bet," Steve chuckled, knocking his forehead against Billy's, nudging their noses together. "Oysters and champagne? Fillet mignon?" he asked, over-pronouncing his terrible French accent, simply because it always made Billy smile.

Billy laughed at him, shook his head a little. "No, no. Nothing like that."

Steve grasped Billy's hand tight, linking their fingers together. Their rings knocked together, like chain links keeping them tethered. "Spaghetti and meatballs? _Lady and the Tramp_ is the pinnacle of romance, right?"

"Nope, not even close," Billy teased, nosing his way across Steve's wet cheek. "Turkey sandwiches, obviously."

And, fuck, it really _was_ obvious, wasn't it? Because Billy wrote them a _book_. Because Billy had trouble with words, but he had no trouble showing what he meant. He had no trouble communicating his intent.

Steve brought their tangled hands up to his lips, pressing kiss after kiss against orange oil stained fingertips. He relished the bite of stubble against one cheek and the soft, golden warmth morning of sunlight on the other.

He felt the weight of the ring on his finger, steady and new and somehow _familiar_ \--like it had simply been missing all this time. Like he'd just been waiting for it. One more piece to their puzzle that kept getting bigger and wider and brighter with each day.

He felt Billy's sleep-chapped lips moving against his temple, silently spelling out words and declarations and promises and forevers. He ducked to press a kiss to the warm skin of Billy's throat, to the strong, steady beat of his pulse. And then another, another. He felt sunlight on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i legit cry editing this just now? you bet your ass
> 
> <33 thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are welcome and lovely


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